


Distractions II: Tumblr Edition

by wintersnight



Category: Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: And feels don't forget feels sometimes, Batfam adventures, Just another place for my crazy things, M/M, Stuff from Tumblr, Tim Drake is bad ass, Tim Drake mostly, Time Fuckery, mostly one shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2018-10-03 23:30:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 142,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10261475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersnight/pseuds/wintersnight
Summary: 1 Dick/Tim Batfam ABO Attempt (NSFW)2 3+1 Soulmate thing3 Jay/Tim Praise Kink (NSFW)4 Ask: The Night the Flying Graysons Died5 Jason v The Pit6 Heavy in Your Arms (kinda sad and angsty Jay)7 Heavy in Your Arms finished8 DickTimJay AOB Part 5 (NSFW)9 Batfam Firefly Crossover AU10 AOB finale11 Fracture What-if: BatDad12 TD Week Prompt13 Convergence: multi-Tim14 Batfam AOB Attempt 6: The Demon's Hea15300 Followers Drabs16 AOB Drabs17 Fracture: Future!Au18 Fracture: Future!Au II19 Robin's Redemption (Fracture Verse)20 De-Aged! Jay21 Soulmate Ask





	1. Batfam AOB Attempt: Alpha!Dick/Omega!Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from my lovely Titans_R_Us: How do you think a a/b/o verse would work with our batfamily? Who would be what class? I'm kinda partial to Tim being an omega, but has thoroughly convinced everyone that he's a beta...until they find out in some way. I love your face, keep being awesome. :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is four separate posts I smushed together. Ah, it's an attempt, so... yeah.

“You gotta be _fucking kiddin’ me_ ,” Hood snarls it out, and without the synths, his voice is the _deep_ darkness, part vigilante, part Pit influence, and… part Alpha male.

Welp, _this_ little sitch is going to be hard to get out of, but Red isn’t out of options. Not yet. He’s backed into the proverbial corner, N, Hood, Robin, and B facing him like _he’s_ one of the baddies; _but_ , he’s got enough tricks in his harness and utility belt, not to mention a group of _loveable assholes_ that might, oh pick _now_ to fly by in Gotham airspace.

Which would be _great_.

Anytime now.

Until then, he still has what’s _hopefully_ a safehouse the Bats still don’t know about, but it’s going to take time to get there—and time is ticking down.

Robin, already a baby Alpha, holds out both gloved hand, palm up. Rut didn’t start until late teens, so at least he can hope the youngest is influenced by things like _hate_ rather than hormones. Red’s eyes flicker behind the whiteouts of the cowl, working his gloved hands in preparation to trigger the gauntlets and release whirlybirds into his palms. Knockouts are in the back pouch of his belt, right hand, left for the grapple, two fire escapes up to the roof. He can possibly out-fly them if he needs to (note to self: it’s a terrible idea to leave the wing packs and sundries in the Perch when it’s another night in Gotham. Dammit, thwarted by the wardrobe choice. Of fucking _course_ ).

“Drake. Explain.” Robin throws it out there while N’s attention is hyper-focused since they can all probably smell it, _feel it_. A male Omega—

In Heat

Dressed as a vigilante

Putting himself in _terrible_ danger

Cue Alpha instincts _on_

So, _fuck_ in no way touches how _bad_ this could go.

“I’ve been working a case. Suppressants are only effective if taken every day.” He breathes out as calmly as possible, allowing his heart beat to pick up (so, if someone _who could be_ _listening_ could seriously _help him out here_ ). “It’s the first time I can even _remember_ I didn’t take it.” Which is not only embarrassing as hell, but a real lesson on how bad he’d let himself get this time—luckily, he activated the Titan’s beacon about ten seconds after B got right up on him and _inhaled_. One of the others would get here in time (hopefully).

N is scarily still, every muscle _tight_. The part of him—the _man_ is horrified Timmy is already going for weapons against them, is pissed he hadn’t told them in all these years, is upset Baby Bird hasn’t _trusted_ them enough to be honest, and is frantically trying to plan the best strategy. The Alpha male, however, is his slightly _feral_ nature, the ones with needs. It knows this Omega doesn’t feed himself enough, sleep enough, doesn’t care for himself, _bleeds_ with the Mission; this Omega doesn’t have comfort and care. An Omega in his pack isn’t cared for, and the animal sneers with displeasure.

B, trying to remain calm, to keep his scent a calming influence, stepping out of the boundaries of the Bat to be a Beta, a father.

“We’re all going to calm down. Right now.”

And here’s where _training_ Alphas his own way pays off.

He makes one hand motion over a shoulder: _scatter_.

Robin jumps with it, heading for the front of the alley to keep watch. N automatically leaps up the fire escape, starting for the roof. The Red Hood backs up, .45s at his shoulders and turns his back to keep an eye on the Bat’s six.

Red breathes in slightly, straightening, hands still working. “The Titans might be on their way—“ he admits, “don’t hurt any of them.”

Through the open comm line, Robin sneers, “ _tt_ , can’t those fools last a night on their own?”

“I might have triggered a homing beacon.”

“Always have a plan,” N cuts through, looking over at the Wallstone Apartments, clearing his head now that the shock has worn off a little and he can regain control.

“He’s in Heat,” Hood supplies, “all ‘n all, Baby Bird, notcha best one ta date.”

“Yeah,” Red agrees softly, “scent inhibitors only go so far.”

“I can’t believe you never told us,” N finally has to bite out. “Because _why_ , Tim? What did you think we were going to do?”

The Bat just crosses his arms over the insignia, waiting for the answer, carefully not saying anything (World’s Greatest Detective, _honestly_ Tim).

But Red laughs a little, low and very unfunny, “what kind of world do you think we’re living in, Dick? Right now one of you wants to shove me to my knees and make me submit. It’s _biology_.”

Hood’s head turns fast, already automatically shoving one of the .45s in his side holster to point a finger right at that _dumb_ mother _fucker_. “Fuck. You, Baby Bird. The Pit mighta done a number on me, but I ain’t some fucking _animal_ what jumps an unwilling ‘Mega. ‘Specially _you_ , asshole. I don’t wanna bleed you anymore, yeah? Haven’t ina minute.”

Red’s jaw tightens, the muscle ticking.

“I want to cuddle you. _Forever_. Nothing new,” N throws in next, lightening the mood. “I mean if anyone is in _need_ of some intense cuddles, it’s _you_ Timmy. This just means I have every right to demand them.” The cool Gotham air hits him, clearing his head a little. Looking back down at Red Robin still wary on his feet, balancing his weight for a lunge or leap, he’s struck again by how much this all makes _sense_. How he didn’t see it before.

Tim worked hard for _years_ to cultivate the solid, heavy muscle, speed, and strength of a Beta or Alpha—but that strange ethereal beauty defining Omegas hovers in the pale softness of his skin (even marred with old scars), the deep blue of his wide eyes, the soft cut to his jawline and cheeks, the natural pink blush to his mouth.

Making sure he clicks his comm to _mute_ , N lets himself whimper softly out loud—God, it explained the stark _want_ that had started right after…

Oh. Tim’s Heats must have started when he hit sixteen _and_ —

Yup, that explains _so much_.

He’d started wanting Tim at around that time.

Shaking his head, N reminds himself they have a volatile situation below and automatically casts looks to the sky for one of the Titans to just _show up_.

B holds a hand up, and Hood just huffs, turns back to take up guard duty.

“I’m good,” and it’s been _one of those nights_ when the Batman actually cracks a smile.

_He knows_. Red lets himself lean back against the dead end because _of course_. “Be honest. You would never have considered making me Robin if you knew.”

B tilts his head a little. “You might be surprised. Important to the current _discussion_ , Red, is that I sure as hell don’t feel that way _now_. You’ve managed it since you put on the cape.“

“Still an asshole, Baby Bird.” Hood throws in.

B allows it with a shrug.

“Now. Are we done here? You need to be away from the public before your symptoms intensify, and possibly draw more Alphas.”

“I need to get to the Perch—“

B’s tone is gruffer, softer somehow, “the isolation room at the Manor is ready for you. No one gets in but Alfred.”

Red considers the offer (and _no_ , he isn’t in shock because _isolation room? For him?_ ), and well, _good plan —_  

When the sonic boom hits.

He barely has time to say, “whoa, _wait a minute!”_ before Kon has him scooped up in both arms, taking off fast enough to crack the pavement. They hit air, Red gripping to the remnants of the Superboy shirt.

“Sorry,” Kon calls close to his ear, tucking his arm around to try and divert some of the chilling wind, “Harm is such an _ass hat_ , dude, you don’t even _know_.”

“I think it would have been okay, but thanks anyway for the save.”

Kon, as a clone, is the only null Red has ever met—someone without an orientation, just happy to _be_. “What happened? I mean, it was just the Bats there, right? I thought you were cool with them again. Like, even Rob now that he’s not a complete dick.”

“I’m… Kon, I’m going into Heat.”

“That a bad thing, isn’t it? BB always acts like he’s _doomed_  and shit. Oh wait, I thought you took something for that.”

“I do. Same time every day, but _somehow_ , it was missing from my bag this morning.”

“Oh…”

“Yup,” and Red grins it out against Kon’s neck because _dammit Cassie_. He appreciated the hell out of his team’s support, but Cassie’s _so-what-if-you’re-an-Omega- **own-that-shit**_ kick is really starting to be a _problem_. After he gets through his first Heat in _years_ (oh, and _alone_ , fan-fucking-tastic), they’re going to have a _talk_. He comes out as an Omega, the JLA is going to be all over him to retire, he won’t be able to hold the position of CEO with Wayne Enterprises.

Mating requests would come to Bruce instead of _him_.

This… this is the _why_ behind everything, wasn’t it?

“Dude, the Bats aren’t going to do anything, relax. Even if they _try_ , we’ll have your back.”

It’s so matter-of-fact, so _Kon_. Loyal to the end, man. Totally.

“They could out Tim Drake,” he replies calmly, “that would pretty much put me under the head of the family’s control, which would be Dick as the oldest Alpha.”

“We can take him.”

“He was _Batman_ , dude. Don’t kid yourself.”

They laugh together, the bantering easing Red’s hackles.

“Seriously, Tim. Don’t worry. We’ve got something they don’t.”

And Kon was starting to slow down a little, the wind not biting as hard, as frigid, and Red couldn’t help but go there, “I’ll bite. What do we have?”

“Pssshh. _You_ , dude. We have the smartest Robin.”

“That…was adorable. Thanks, man.”

“What’re best friends for?”

“Not to be a pain in my ass and take on super baddies without letting someone know.”

Kon looks down at him with a raised brow and Clark’s _I-disapprove-of-that-statement_ look.

Well, there’s _that_ , isn’t there.

“I usually let everyone know,” he starts weakly, but even his bullshit tech isn’t enough to support that one.

“Sure, sure, keep telling yourself that. Oh! Shouldn’t someone be—I dunno, _with_ you or something?” Kon’s feet touch down at the roof of the Tower, and he lets Red down to stand on his own. “For your Heat, I mean?”

“Well, about that—“ Red finally deactivates the cowl, shoving it back because the symptoms are trickling in, his forehead damp with sweat. The suppressants must be almost out of his system.

“He _has_ someone.”

Both Titans jerk around as—

Wally gives a sheepish wave from right over Nightwing’s shoulder, a Nightwing that is looking _intent_ with the whiteouts lowered, his eyes glittering in the rising sun halfway across the country.

“I think we need to _talk_ , Timmy.” And the edge of his voice, an Alpha that gave in to his instincts, the primal need to _chase_.

Oh

Shit

He shouldn’t have run. _He should never have_ **run**.

**

“Fuck,” Red asserts very, _very_ gently, muscles tight in preparation to dive off Titan’s Tower, snag the grapple, and hopefully outrun N; but, with the sun rising in the city, he’d have to up his _run-the-fuck-away_ game.

Kon, who gives _no shits_ about things like, _that guy used to be Batman_ , _weight the pros and cons_ , steps pointedly in front of Red, standing straight-backed, eyes narrow, assessing his possible opponent.

But N’s gaze is all for Red’s bare face right over Kon’s shoulder, “check the comm line, Tim.”

Okay…?

Red’s eyes stay on N’s tight form as he pulls the comm out of his cowl and puts it in his ear, taps it to the Bat-line, “Red.”

B is obviously working, _things_ happening in the background, “when was your last Heat?” is the demand.

Red draws in sharply, eyes widening.

“I thought so,” B growls back, “longer than twenty-four months. Taking your low immunities into account, I’m shocked you haven’t gone into Heat-Mania already.”

Yeah, the last time he’d been okay taking time out of his life to spend seven days in _agony_ , he’d still been wearing the R. For some crazy reason, he hadn’t felt safe enough to be down that long as Red Robin, hadn’t thought any of his safe houses would be secure enough…

Welp, _issues much?_

“Thirty-eight months,” he admits quietly, already planning for a contingency.

The Alpha in front of him bares his teeth, very _unhappy_ about that little revelation—

“ _How long?”_ B doesn’t sound any _less_ pissed off, only emphasized by things crashing in the background. “I’m suddenly very _glad_ Wally was free tonight to run N to you.”

And just, _what now?_ “Batman,” Red voice drops lower, and _edge_ to his tone.

“I’ve lost enough Robins, Tim. I’ll be _damned_ if I lose you, too, not when I’m trying to get you _back_ , do you understand me, young man? Alpha, Beta, Omega, none of that matters. You’re my _son_ , and, _no_ , I’m not going to sit in Gotham while a pent-up Heat possibly kills you.”

Kon turns just slightly to look over his shoulder with an arched brow, you know, _so, are we fighting or not?_

“I have other methods,” Red deadpans. “I’ve got a plan, one that doesn’t include being mated and impregnated. Thanks for looking out, but the Flash can run him back.”

He moves just slightly as N starts to stride across the roof, a dangerous sway to his hips—one that is recognizable to the vigilante that spent most of his career as N’s partner and student. That walk is the _I’m ready to wreck shit_ when N has had just about enough _fuckery_.

“Honestly, Tim,” B sighs into the comm, “I’ve trained Dick using Omega pheromones since he was _eight_.”

And, yes _B_ , he _knows_ , but the possibility is always—

“None of that is going to happen,” and it’s N’s voice, just lower, deeper, striking way, _way_ too many chords along Red’s spine—his inner Omega starting to unfurl with the dark voice calling it to a nice, available, ( _safe_ ) steady Alpha male. “ _Timmy_ , I’m here to help you through it, keep B informed on your status, not force you into a mating.”

Even though he feels like _ass_ saying it, the old hurts are still buried somewhere _deep_ , “you think I’m just going to give you the power to take _this_ cape from me, too, Dick? The _second_ I submit to you, it’s _over_. You’ll own me.” And _fuck no_ , not happening. Timothy Jackson Drake has worked most of his life fighting against his inner-Omega, refusing to back down, refusing to _submit_ to _anyone_ , refusing to _hide_ , refusing his very nature. He’s not going to let himself be owned, shut away to be _safe_ and _protected_. He didn’t give a damn how rare male Omegas are; no one is taking away his freedom.

He has pellets in hand automatically, even though his hand is shaking slightly at the possibility of having to _use_ them.

And N…jerks _back_ , takes a step back, eyes blowing wide. “What?! You really think I’d—” But he can see the deadly serious expression, the calculation in Tim’s eyes, the hunched stance that is all _ready to fight_. He has to tread lightly here, or everything could go _badly_. “Oh, _Tim_ —“

“It makes sense,” Red supplies in a neutral tone.

“You know I didn’t take Robin from you because of _biology_ , Tim,” N argues back, “that had _nothing_ to do with it. At all. You are my _equal_ , and that hasn’t changed for me. Omega or not.”

“Right. Alpha prerogative, right?”

“Hood and I aren’t like other Alphas, and you _know_ that. And I—Tim, I’ve _never_ made any Omega submit to me, and I’m sure as hell not going to start _now_. This isn’t about taking you or keeping you, it’s about your health and safety, _please_ believe that.”

Tim grits his teeth a little, “Most Alphas aren’t afraid to take what they _want_ , Dick. Omega preferences aside—“

And, he shouldn’t have said that.

N goes taunt, his tone is dangerous, just on the edge of _feral_ , “we don’t have _time_ for it now, Timmy, but once you’ve come out of your Heat okay, you’re going to give me the name of the Alpha that made you think like that. Then, I’m going to pay this Alpha a _visit_.”

Kon, with the notch turned up to _oh shit_ , shifts just enough to talk out of the side of his mouth, “I’m missing something here, T. Wanna let me in on it? I mean, we can just sedate you through it, right?”

“Yes—“ Red starts.

“No—“ N growls out at the same time.

“ _Yes_ ,” Red growls back.

“Maybe _no_ , Cindy,” N replies with a grin (one that is more _sharp_ than usual).

Kon throws up both hands, palms up, shooting Wally a sympathetic glance because getting in between two Bats is just _never easy_. “Okay, how about a better explanation than that?”

Red sighs a little, “remember the time before BB and Rave mated? When she had to go “help” him through his Heat?”

Kon’s brows furrow as he slowly straightens up (since Nightwing doesn’t seem to be ready to _kill shit_ at the moment), “well, yeah, I mean, all of you said he might die if—oh. _Oh shit_ , I see where this is going.”

N gives a flourish of his arms, “exactly. I’m the contingency plan since both of your Alphas are out of the Tower. If Tim starts showing signs of Heat-Mania, then sedatives aren’t going to be enough to keep his body from failing.”

“I’m not exhibiting any signs of Heat-Mania,” Red bites out.

“ _Yet_ , Timmy. Once you got full-blown, we have no idea what might happen. You haven’t had a proper one since—“ and N abruptly draws the timeline conclusion, his mouth shutting with a hard _click_. “Oh.”

Red just raises his upper lip to bare his teeth, an ingrained reaction to cover up his Omega nature.

Yeah, _oh_.

But, N reaches up and peels the domino away from his eyes, turning into _Dick Grayson_ , “do you want to—?”

“Nope,” Red fills in, “I don’t want to talk about _why_ , thanks anyway.”

“I hope someday we’re back to place where you feel like you _can_.”

Kon moves slightly, allowing the eldest Robin to face his old partner, _his_ former Robin when they needed to take down Jean Paul Valley, to let B train after Bane had broken his back.

“We’re getting there,” Red replies because their ‘Get the intel guy back to the Bats’ plan or whatever is starting to give him evidence that…they really do mean it. _But_ , his secret finally coming out could change things, there were so many things that could go _wrong_ —

Like his long-standing _fixation_ (thanks, _B_ , couldn’t have sent Hood instead? At least he hasn’t had wet dreams about the Red Hood since before puberty—no… those ones started in the last year or so embarrassingly enough).

“This…probably isn’t going to help in the effort, Dick. I don’t—I don’t know if I can do this.”

But a smile, bright in the dawn, cuts across Dick’s face, and it’s _easy_ , familiar, taking Red right back to the old days hanging out in the Cave, in the ‘Haven, when they could be Dick and Tim instead of N and Red. A place they’d been getting to in the last six months, fighting together, solving cases, spending time on roof tops talking, being _friends_ again—not just allies in the Mission.

Somewhere along that line, Dick had stopped triggering his immediate distance—rather, it’s his _instincts,_ the old knowledge of _safe Alpha_ that had been taking a beating.

“I’ve _never_ known anyone as capable as you are, and I know… we’re not quite there yet, but—” N’s hands are on his shoulders, steading, and _dammit_ , he’s giving those big eyes. “Just _please_ let me help you. _Tim_ , give me this chance. If you don’t show signs of Heat-Mania, I will _own_ the communal floor couch and make your team watch old Sci-Fi movies. All the terrible ones where you can see the wires and stuff. Once I know you’re okay, I’ll go back to Gotham. _Nothing_ changes, not because you’re an Omega.”

And Tim Drake is the one that closes his eyes and breathes slowly out (because _really Dick_ , go for the heartstrings first?).

“I know,” Tim deadpans, “eat right, sleep, do normal people things once and a while.”

“I only go on about it because B’s _know your limitation_ speech never gets any easier to hear.” Those hands squeeze him, ground him in that _way_ —

And they’re both laughing at silly things, maybe giving each other a measure of comfort, _permission_ to let the past _ease_ for the present.

Tim steps forward before his brain can counter the move, reaching around to grip the Alpha. And _same old Dick_ , octopus hold _engaged_. The tension in his spine since, well, _proverbial corner_ back in Gotham relaxes as the tips of gloved fingers find a way into his too-long hair and scratch lightly at his scalp.

Dick ducks down enough to talk close to his ear, “I’m _here_ , Baby Bird. I’m not going to leave you, okay?”

Tim thumps his forehead against Dick’s shoulder, smiling faintly—and tenses as the cloying smell tinges the air between them. An undeniable scent of _slick_.

_Shit_

Vibration against the harness is totally Dick Grayon purring and Tim swallows a little with it and the feeling of his body warming up, preparing itself, the suppressant probably almost filtered out. His rough estimate is less than a few hours if not sooner (and standing this close is not helping that timeline. At _all_ at all).

“Need to feed you, Timmy,” low and edged, Dick rouses himself slightly, “you’re going to need your strength, and the clock is ticking. C’mon,” a tug to his hand and Tim lets himself be lead to the elevator (that might be because the back view of the Nightwing suit is something no one should ever _miss_ ). Dick waves a hand at Kon and Wally—who had given them just enough space without compromising safety. Wally is eyeing the sun rise (not usually conducive to unmasked vigilantes with _secret identities_ ) while Kon texts the rest of the Titans with deets and a _just a heads-up, Bat drama at home base— it’s being handled._

The metas ease into a comfortable stride behind the Bats, still giving the illusion of _space_.

“He always does this,” Wally leans over to snark, “pisses someone off and just gets all _sincere_ and apologetic.”

Kon almost chokes on a snort. _Seriously_. “I’ve figured out the Bats are just fucking weird in one way or another. As long as none of them turns into a supervillain, the world is safe.”

Wally laughs this time as they join said Bats in the elevator, completely ignoring how Dick’s thumb is rubbing over the bones in Tim’s wrist or their low conversation:

“How long does it normally—?”

“A week, give or take.”

“Okay. I didn’t think of it before, but is there—um, another Alpha you want me to contact instead? I understand if—“

Kon’s brow arches as Tim goes rigid, his cheeks coloring. He very carefully doesn’t say _a word_ as Dick hyper-focuses immediately.

“Tim. Did another Alpha _do_ something to you?”

Nope, it’s not _really_ a question, especially close to the end when the words are pretty much all dangerous growl.

Tim just frowns and _moves_ while the elevator slides seamless down into the Tower, switching the hold on his wrist, foot out; he grips Dick by the wrist and shoulder, spins them to put the Alpha against the wall.

“Snap _out of it_ , okay?”

“Ti—mmy.” Dick drawls out, leaning down slightly, compliant in the Omega’s hold.

And, well, Tim huffs in annoyance then leans up to talk against Dick’s ear even though Kon has super-hearing and Wally is _right there_. “I’ve never been with an Alpha, okay? So, will you _calm the hell down, please?”_

But _dammit_. Biology and shit because Dick’s pupils _dilate_.

“Oh,” is the darkly muttered reply.

“Y—Yeah, so. There’s _that_ ,” he tries and leans back out of Dick’s space just as the _scent_ of hot-blooded, _aroused_ Alpha hits every possible _need_ he’s ever had, enough to make him gasp low and now he actually _feels_ himself getting more _wet_ —

“ _Super_ awkward,” Kon blurts out as the elevator doors open to the Titan’s Communal Floor.

“Amen,” Wally calls, walking out to start scoping out the movie collection. He pulls the cowl off to let his face breathe a little.

Kon is right after him, thinking someone should have the brain power to operate the kitchen appliances.

Tim moves to follow, but—

Dick executes almost the same move, putting the smaller vigilante against the elevator wall, leaning in. Tim catches a breath, wide-eyed.

“Never?”

_Breathe_. “Never.”

And there’s that rumble, _purring_. “Don’t hate me, but I think I could change your view on Alphas, Tim.”

His throat dry, Tim manages, “if it comes down to it. Heat-mania, I mean,” but _God_ , now he’s thinking of the _possibilities_.

Fingers on his jaw tilt him up enough to get another hint of strength and safety, danger and arousal. _Alpha_.

It’s stupid _,_ _stupid_ biology that makes his knees weak enough that Dick compensates, pulling their bodies together to keep him on his feet. Even though the Kevlar and leather, the specialty fabrics, gloves and gauntlets, his eidetic memory fills in bare skin from showers and changing in various places—of Dick’s arms and throat, scars and sinews, perfect lines and proportions.

It’s enough to convince him not to move as Dick Grayson lowers his head and slides their mouths together, just another catalyst that fights the last of the suppressant’s effect, and his body abruptly decides to _get with the Omega program_.

The same time he registers how good Dick _tastes_ , the Heat uncurls from deep in his belly and roars to life.

**

The abrupt wave of pheromones is like cold water, a moment of complete lucidity (well, calculated _that_ wrong; even Einstein had an off day). Tim rears back, shoving Dick away in the same movement, breathless with the influx of Omega hormones into his starved, battered body. He knows what’s next, remembers this part, and, well, it’s _ass_.

The pain radiates _hot_ through his abdomen, severe cramping, twice as worse as normal since, you know, he’d been a little too _busy_ the past few years for this shit.

And it’s like being stabbed again, bleeding out all over, just _worse_ —the cramps hit hard enough in the mid to low abdomen to take his breath, make his lungs seize, make him double over rather than hit the ground ( _luckily_ ).

Kon furrows his brows at Wally’s dropped jaw, glancing over at the elevator just as Dick regains his bearings and slams the button for the Penthouse. All Kon sees it Dick moving with _purpose_ toward Tim as the doors slide closed.

“Uh–?” The super is already hovering, ready—

Wally holds up both hands, “trust me, _don’t_.”

“Hey, man—“

“It just hit him, Conner, and it hit him _hard_. Take it from a speedy Alpha when I say, I’ve never felt that kind of reaction. Damn, poor Tim. Even with Dick’s help, it’s going to be rough.”

Kon’s eyes go wider and he turns slightly regardless.

Wally grips his ankle, “call Gar. I am one _hundred_ percent serious, Kon. You can in _no way_ help Tim right now. Dick is the closest Alpha and judging by that wave of pheromones? An Alpha is exactly what he’s going to need.”

“Cassie can—“

“Cassie is a terrific Alpha,” Wally agrees, “but she can’t help a male Omega _that_ far gone.”

Kon sinks slightly, eyes on the ceiling, obviously fighting with himself.

“Call Gar. Ask him why Raven could help him.”

In turn, the meta just gives him a patient look, “ _dude_ , like I want those kind of details!? I mean, there’s a Carnivorous Beast dimension. Did you even _know_ she can throw people in _a carnivorous beast dimension?_ ”

Now it’s Wally’s turn to give _that look_. “We were on a team together. Who do you think helped her _find_ it?”

Okay, that’s one for the Flash.

“Gar can _shapeshift_. That’s how Raven can see him through his Heats.” Because really, shouldn’t that be obvious?

The implications hit and just _TMI, please, **please** , brain bleach._ “I can’t ever un-know that. Thanks, Wally.”

“I’m serious. Raven or Cassie could help ease the symptoms on a lesser Heat, maybe even see him through it, but something _that_ powerful needs an Alpha male, Kon.”

Feet finally on the floor, Kon lays his face in his hands and hopes Dick Grayson isn’t going to do something Tim would definitely regret.

While Tim, who is hanging out in his intense little world (a whole _new_ level of _owfuck)_ , barely feels the harness and utility belt coming off (since the Meta Killer debacle, he’d been getting closer to Gotham and the Bats—dammit, they all knew how to deactivate his security system), the armored tunic shoved down his arms, discarded. His Robin training jumps through the _pain_ and he manages to fight back from hands trying to get to the zipper of the undersuit, try to get room to _hurt_ , to curl in on himself, and _assess_ the potential internal threat level.

Dick dodges his attempts, pulls Tim right into his body, shoving the Omega’s face into his neck where his scent is the strongest.

“It’s _me_ , just me. Calm down.”

Tim gasps, breath fluttering against Dick’s jaw, and the _scent_ —

His abdomen clenches hard again, a choking pain all over.

Dick falls to his knees between Tim’s shaky legs (partially to keep Baby Bird standing), just fists both hands in the undersuit, and rips it open, not even straining with the effort. Tim only slightly jerks at the motion, uttering a low, warning growl, but his hands finding purchase on Dick’s shoulders to keep himself from a terribly embarrassing face-plant.  

Riding on instinct, Dick slides his gloved hands against skin, presses with fingers to find the source and starts to knead his palms right against the knotted muscle.

(And if it had been skin on _skin,_ Dick didn’t know what he might do. Well, that may be the problem—he knows _exactly_ what he needs to do, and the whole list just keeps getting _longer_ with every second he’s close to bare skin _._ )

He hits the right combination of movements then presses the heel of his hand down firmly; Tim’s body unlocks, slumps forward, his chest over Dick’s shoulder, arms shakily akimbo. The Alpha presses harder, massaging the cramps away with small circles and pressure. The motion causes an embarrassing squelsh of slick to leak from him, making him humiliatingly _wet_ (fucking _hormones_ ), and the elevator hums as the scent gets _headier_. The Alpha still kneads with one hand, the other gripping the back of Tim’s thigh, listening to the barely there _ah, ah, ah_ s panted out.

“H-How did you know—“

“A good Alpha understands what happens to an Omega’s body during Heat,” Dick fills in gently as the taunt muscles under his glove finally give way, relax.  He hears a groan muffled in his back, and _that_ sound goes right to his knot—because he’s _damn_ sure he has enough ideas to get something a little _better_. The need to hear his name gasped, moaned, and _screamed_ while he alternates between licking, tastings, _sucking_ Tim’s cock to his slick-filled ass—fuck, the Alpha in him wants to know what every part of Tim tastes like, smells like, if his come is sweet or bitter, if his slick is thick and rich—

(Who is he _kidding?_ Those needs are all Dick Grayson, the Alpha be damned)

The elevator cheerfully bings, opening to the doors of Tim’s Penthouse Perch.

Dick keeps holding the back of his thighs, stands with Tim’s upper body draped over his shoulder, and takes them both where they need to be. He doesn’t bother stopping even with Tim rousing, arms firming. He takes them up a short, spiral staircase, the door sliding open.

“’M okay, put me down.”

But _nope_ , not with his skin getting hotter, the Heat taking hold.

“You need to lock-down the Perch, Tim. Can you do that for me?” The bedroom is the same as the last time he was in Titan’s Tower when word just _happened_ to reach Gotham Red Robin was down after a fight with the Insidious Seven (and _now_ , all of those instances made _sense_ —why he felt a thrill of fear, an itch of anticipation if Tim was hurt out of his _reach_. The rage down deep when he first saw the scar, learned of the injury that almost took Tim’s life in Iraq. Maybe the Alpha in him always _knew_ ).

Dick moves to the bed, bracing one knee to bend and let Tim off his shoulder, automatically keeping a hand on his back to ease him down gently. The red flush on his cheeks, neck, and visible parts of his chest, the heat coming off his bared skin, they didn’t have much _time_ and already things are progressing _way_ too fast.

“Timmy? Are you with me?” One hand palms the side of Tim’s face, directing his gaze to Dick’s hovering right over him. “Can you lock-down the Perch?”

The Omega, eyes already glazing over, takes a stuttering breath, “you… you need to get out first.”

“I said I’m not leaving you, and I _meant_ it.”

Tim throws back his head and groans, eyes squeezing shut because _why_ did he have to say _that?_ To get right into the deep depth of his _needs_ ( _don’t abandon me—I’d survive it if you do, I’d keep moving, but please_ …).

“ _Dick_ —“

“You need to come, soon,” pulling off his gloves and deactivating the gauntlets, Dick calculates based on the power of Tim’s scent. “You’re already spiking a temperature, severe cramps? It’s all too fast, Timmy, you _know_ what your body is telling you.”

And he’s still together enough to grit his teeth. _Heat-Mania_. His body is pumping hormones too fast, fast enough that it could potentially kill him. The fever could spike, start causing seizures, boil his brain—

“I… _Fuck_ —“ but his abdomen tightens again, promising another round of pain.

“I know,” Dick tries to be gentle, hands finding the knots again, shuddering lightly as his fingers trace over old scars and trembling carved muscles, “I _know_ , Baby Bird. But, I’m going to help, okay? It’s going to be hard to trust me, but I’m going to take care of you.”

Another gush of slick leaks from him at the stupid, _stupid_ hormones and suppressed instincts that make the Omega in him (the _man_ in him) so fucking _desperate_ to hear those words.

And Dick has no time _now_ for self-recriminations when he smells the spike with those words, realizes (even with his hindbrain working out the best ways to prep the Omega to be taken) how much _wrong_ he’s done without full disclosure. For an Omega to be abandoned by his pack, to be forced _out_ , goes against their every instinct to nurture and care for pack mates, to let the pack support him, let his Alpha take care of him while he takes care of everything else— an Omega _is_ the center of the pack, a yin to the Alpha instincts and yang to the Betas. The Omega is the bringer of life, and in old school packs, is fiercely _protected_ (reads: subjugated).

By all rights, any other Omega in the same situation would have probably ended up dead when the Robin mantle was taken, the last straw to the string of deaths, Tim’s pack, his _safety_ , dwindling. In reality, he and Dami could have literally _killed_ the former Robin with blatant rejection of his _place_ and never know the reasons _why_.

Of course, only Tim Drake could be an Omega that could survive something like that and keep moving.

With that terrible realization, the Alpha in him rises closer to the surface, determined to show this Omega how much the pack _needed_ him, _wanted_ him, would be _there_ for him. The Alpha wanted him to _believe_ they would never deserted him again—and their fight to get him _back_ just became much more _important_. For Tim’s own sense of belonging, to make up for their dismissal, for letting him stay gone too long, the Alpha and the man are going to give him as much pleasure as his body can possibly _stand_ , so Tim will know his place has always been there, will know it down to his _bones_.

One hand continues to massage out the cramps, let Tim’s body relax, and the other is pulling off the ruined undersuit, leaving just the slick-damp red briefs hugging the heavy erection, Dick’s eyes drawn to the proud length trapped and leaking at the tip, wetting the fabric.

Cool air on his hot skin brings him further out of the pain and the beginning tingles of arousal already starting low in his abdomen to work its way _up_.

And it’s Dick’s bare hands on him that makes him bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, fighting the stupid _words_ bubbling up from his _creamy Omega center_ or some shit: _touch me, take me, fuck, Dick, just say you’ll **keep** me this time._

Because _um, no_ , that’s just the invitation for an Alpha to bite the fuck out of him.

Not mate-shopping, please leave your letter of interest and GTFO.

Because the thought always in the back of his mind is shifting, altering. He theorized they wanted him back to keep the intel guy, the tech support, but now the secret was _out_ this… this would become the _reason_ they wanted him back—

“…with me, Tim?” Dick’s massage gentles now that the cramps relaxed, but he’s sliding his palms up Tim’s side, thumbs brushing (just a graze) over pink nipples, trying to ease the Omega into his touch, get him accustomed.

And it’s in the white knuckled grip on the sheets, the blood on his chin, the way Tim averts his eyes, fighting his instincts, trying not to give in to what his body _needs_.

Dick leans down, tongue out to lick over his chin, take away the blood and _taste_ at the same time, but he can’t let up, not with the base objectives clear:

Make sure the Heat doesn’t kill him.

Give him back his place in the Bats

Do what he should have done two years ago, and _take care of his Robin._

“You should know something,” Dick breathes against the line of his jaw. “Something important. Talk to me if you can, Timmy.”

His mouth opens because there are so many _things_ on the tip of his tongue, beating around in his brain pan, but what comes out is, “… _hot_. Dick, I’m so _hot_.”

“I know you are. We’ll take care of it, okay?” Dick’s hand traces down the sweaty chest, down his abdomen, fingers splaying over the trapped erection, moving, starting a rhythm. The touch makes Tim arch into his hand automatically, eyes falling half-mast, fists clench harder in the bedding. “I—I’ve waited a _long_ time to be able to touch you like this, to give you pleasure. Way before tonight.”

“Oh _God_ …ah.”

“I’ve wanted you for so long, Tim,” and Dick talks against his ear, “I’ve wanted _you_ , not the Omega, not Robin, not Red. _You_ , Tim Drake.” And a wet stripe is licked under his ear, teasing the sensitive spot close to his glands, wrenching an abrupt noise out of him. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to pressure you or make it look like sex was all I wanted. I never wanted you to think that.”

And it might be stupid as hell for his eyes to get hot and wet, enough for him to turn away, shove his face in a pillow and bite down, hiding the malfunction.

Dick, however, doesn’t seem to be okay letting him hide anymore, just turns him back to lick and nip at his mouth until he opens up. The broad hand moving over his painful erection speeds up a little, so, _so_ much _not enough_.

“Lock down the Perch, Tim. I just need you to do that for me. Then, you’re going to let me touch you, let me give you what your body _needs_ , okay? Please? Just— _please_ , Tim. Let me have this.”

And Tim comes up from the haze of arousal, of the motion of his hips working against Dick’s hand, calling out to the system with his code words, voice stuttering when Dick’s hand slips in the briefs for bare skin. He moans out loud, panting, unable to help himself but work into that touch.

And the smell wraps around the Alpha, sets him purring again at the hint of pleasured Omega, Dick leans just enough to slide their mouths together, tasting again, and using the other hand to start thumbing those pink nipples, rubbing circles.

Tim pulls back to breathe, to arch his neck—

Dick mouths at the skin, refusing to acknowledge the instinct to _bite_ , moves down Tim’s body, licking his collar bones, sucking on one of those sweet nipples, moving to the next. He manages to work the briefs down and off, fill his hands with Tim’s ass, dragging his fingers along the seam, let his fingers touch the wet opening. He has to bite down on his lip hard, his cock _throbbing_. He needs to see, to touch, to _taste._ He needs it like he needs his next _breath_.

Dick is off the bed, kneeling before he knows anything else, gripping Tim’s hips to pull him to the edge.

The abrupt move makes the Omega come to himself enough to lean up on his elbows curiously, legs thrown over Dick’s shoulders. He can feel the vibrations against the back of his thighs, that rolling purr.

“So pretty and wet,” the words spill out, “So perfect.”

Oh. Dick’s _looking_ at him, like _there_.

His face heats with embarrassment so fast, he thinks he might actually pass out (and this is so _not the time_ ).

“D—Don’t—“ he starts, but the hands holding him open tighten and Dick’s leaning in to—

Oh _God_ , is _this_ what Alphas do?

Tim doesn’t realize he’s gasped out a choked breath, the tongue swiping over him, making his nerve endings tingle, and Dick actually _moans_ into him.

“Taste _so_ good, Timmy, so good… _more_.”

And the feral nature takes over before Dick can pull it back, the bittersweet taste is all Omega, tinged with something wholly _Tim_ —he dives back _ravenous_ , lips and teeth and tongue working that most intimate place so he can have _more_. He wants to map every inch, to know every taste, every _scent_ , wants to feel the Omega tighten and tremble on his tongue, wants to _suck_ the slick right out of him until he’s blissed out and sated. Until his Omega is pleasured and content, would allow his Alpha to feed him and bathe him, nuzzle him and hold him safely before the next round of Heat.

All of it, _all_ of it makes Dick shudder under Tim’s knees. He and the Alpha both want it, want so much.

Tim is panting, writhing, arching into Dick’s mouth, his eyes wide with surprise and just _how did he not know how **good** this could feel?_

His hands move at some point, from clenching fists full of sheet to gripping Dick’s shoulders trying to stay grounded, not to _lose_ himself, but _God_ , he’s—

“I—I’m _close_ ,” he manages, throwing his head back against the pillows.

“Mmm,” the Alpha moans because _yes_ , yes his Omega needed to come, so responsive, beautiful, squirming with pleasure for the Alpha’s benefit.  Of course he wants to see more, to make his Omega stay right on the edge, to feel himself be brought right to the cusp, waiting until the Alpha brings him. And he will have that once the danger has passed, and the Omega is back to a relatively safe Heat. This pretty one, the one that could hurt him, that could stand on his own strength, this is the one the Alpha wants as much as the _man_.

He drives his tongue inside the tight opening, working in and out, fucking inside as far as he could go, reeling with the taste and how very _tight_.

Tim keens with it, mouth open and muscles taunt as he comes the first time on Dick’s tongue, the motion never stopping. Rather, Dick grips him tighter, holds him in place to keep going, to lick up the slick trickling out with his orgasm. He doesn’t stop until the Omega is boneless, only twitching slightly at the sensitivity.

The purring is softer, deeper, satisfied as he leans up to look over the length of flushed, panting Tim, eyes soft and half-mast.

“Beautiful,” Dick can’t help it, _really_. He’s still in Nightwing, slick all over his face, and so hard he _aches_.  Every instinct in him is right in line with Dick’s own _wants_ , to bring Tim over and over, to watch him fall apart, placing his vulnerabilities Dick’s hands, for those eyes to look up at him with _trust_ again _._

With a hand, he wipes the slick off and sucks it from his palm, meeting Tim’s eyes with heat in his own. He eases Tim’s legs off his shoulders and leans in to lap at the tip of half-hard cock, to catch the drops of come clinging there, making Tim’s body twitch.

Sweet and addicting. All the coffee Tim consumes and his own faint bittersweet.

Dick moves, hands on either side of Tim’s hips, leaning over his shaky body to lap up the trail. His tongue traces the jut of hip and curve of muscle, sucking lightly to get every last bit. He only moves lower again once he’s cleaned the Omega, once the moans and gasps are wrung out, and the scent of the next round, _arousal_ , is right there to read.

Dick moans with it, the ability to read the younger vigilante this way, and greedily sucks the tip of Tim’s cock into the warm wet of his mouth. Under his tongue, Tim get hard against instantly, the Omega’s hips snap up. The heat in his veins strikes, his blood boiling, his body burning for more while he hisses, still sensitive.

“ _Dick!_ Too—oh _fuck_ , too—too soon!”

But the Alpha just takes him deeper, wicked tongue gliding over his cock, growling in his throat to vibrate the tip.

“Oh my _God!”_  Both hands are in Dick’s hair and Tim’s _writhing_ , hips twitching up to go _deeper_ , and the heat almost makes him mindless with how good it feels, the warring _too much_ and _more, please, more_ rippling up his spine. The sensations are only interrupted by the fingertip circling his entrance, spreading slick over his opening.

“Yes,” he whines, panting, because he’s empty, so _empty,_ clenching around nothing, and he _needs_ —

But Dick is slowly working inside him, being _gentle_ , while using his expert mouth in just the right spots to make Tim’s thighs tremble uncontrollably.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pants, shoving his hips down to take in _more_ , deeper where his body craves to be full.

Dick pulls off his cock with a final suck and presses kisses to his working hips, eyes all for the squirming vigilante, the sight of Tim so undone, full of _want_ , goes right to his swelling knot, makes him bite into his cheek hard, brings himself out of the Alpha mindset. He’s still Dick, and Omega or not, this is still Timmy, so he’s going to wait until Tim is ready. And sure, he _knows_ Omega biology, the body prepares itself to be taken, but with how long Tim’s been on suppressants, he’s not going to leave anything to chance. Not now that he’s been given this _gift_.

If there isn’t trust in Tim’s eyes, then Dick can work him just like this over and over until his Heat finally calms enough for Tim to be safely sedated.

“You feel perfect inside, Pretty Bird, so tight.” Breathed against a scar, _the_ scar over Tim’s lower abdomen, one he can’t help but whimper over now that he _knows_. He moves faster, more slick leaking down his hand, and Tim starting to open up for him. And he goes deeper, bumping against—

Tim shouts, back arching, fists clenching automatically.

“There it is,” Dick coos, voice deeper, circling the pleasure spot with a soft touch, his tongue darts out to lick the base of Tim’s cock, leans in to suck, work his way up again. Another finger nudges in, working the stretch. “That’s going to make you feel good, isn’t it? Just like that, Timmy, show me I’m taking care of you the right way.”

But Tim is a _mess_ , mouth hanging open as he pants, makes _noises_ from deep down in his chest, body a mass of fiery pleasure/pain. He can’t think past the sensations, the scent of Alpha skin and arousal, of how doing _this_ to him make Dick _want_.

He’s lost in the feel of being touched again, his body burning for it, _aching_ for more.

“That’s right, Pretty Bird,” Dick breathes in between licks. “Your body is telling me what you need, telling me the _truth_.”

The words filter in enough for Tim to raise his head, look down at Dick’s deep blue eyes. He almost lets out a sob when another finger is added and the stretch is so close to what his body wants, what would ease the fire in his veins. “D—Dick…”

“And I’m going to give it what it _wants_ ,” in that dark, deep tone, the dangerous one when it’s time to _step back_.

Tim has enough time to gasp before the Alpha takes him down to the root and presses on his spot at the same time.

His eyes roll back, crying out as he comes again, muscles straining with how _good_ it is, being brought by an Alpha.

And Dick is careful not to spill a drop, to suck and lick just to make sure, before he pulls off and gently pull his fingers from the tight, warm _heat_ where his knot is aching to go. He gives himself a much needed second, licking the slick off his hand again while rubbing soothingly over the Omega’s stomach with the other, watching the fast rise and fall of Tim’s chest while he comes down. His temperature isn’t spiking and the scent isn’t so _raw_ , crisis of Heat-Mania averted. Now all he has to do is calm the instincts—make sure his inner Alpha isn’t got to take the next step.

Once he feels like he’s not going to spread those thighs and fill his Pretty Bird up completely (you know, like he has _some_ semblance of control unlike, say, _another_ vigilante he could name; one that rhymes with the Dead Wood—or something), Dick gracefully crawls up the bed, pausing to run his tongue up the bottom of Tim’s calf, the bend of his trembling knee, the sweet little curve of hip, and—

Dick waits for Tim to blearily raise his head, and bows low enough to run his tongue over _that_ scar.

The reaction is better than he could have imagined. Tim’s cock hardens immediately against Dick’s chest, the hoarse cry helpless against the sensations.

And Dick runs the edge of teeth over it, feeling thighs twitch under his hands before continuing to move upward, over Tim’s ribs, up to kiss the tender nubs just enough for an intake of breath.

But apparently, the Omega is just about _done_ with the slow, easy routine.

Dick has a moment while mouthing Tim’s collar bone, nuzzling easy kisses there, when he has an _oh shit_ tremor in the part of his brain that knows all about dangerous situations.

The lunge takes him by surprise, but only _just_. Tim doesn’t give him a second, but is everywhere, sucking his bottom lip, grinding his erection against the reinforced jock, hands already pulling at the Nightwing suit.

Dick purrs, the vibrations going from his chest to Tim’s, making the Omega shudder delicately.

“Stop teasing me, Dick,” and those eyes are full of promise, the words said into his mouth. “If you’re going to stay with me through this, then be my _Alpha_ and fucking _take me_.”

And what Alpha could refuse _that?_

Dick lunges this time, taking Tim on his back, eyes dilated, “Oh _Pretty Bird_ , you asked for it.”

**

And it’s intoxicating—Tim’s pure, unfiltered _scent_. The sweet but subtle, previously hidden undertone of _Omega_ (and now that he’s _here_ , nosing into the younger vigilante’s collar bone, gets the full _force_ of his second sex, Dick’s knot _throbs_ with how _right_ it is, how _fitting_ it is as a compliment to the scent he had known for _years_. Now his hindbrain recognizes the new _mission_ in that scent: to make this Omega _keen_ ), but he moans out loud against skin when his sensitive nose catches the intoxicating spice of _need_.

The Nightwing suit is shoved down to the top of his thighs so he can press skin to skin while he lathes Tim’s chest and throat, the rolling purr vibrating between them. He moves on top, sliding them together, making sure he’s covering as much of Tim’s body as he can, blanketing the shorter bird, his instincts driving him to do everything in his power to make sure Tim never, _never_ regrets giving himself over to an Alpha. ( _His_ Alpha)

Dick has both the Omega’s wrists caught in one hand, presses them _tight_ into the bedding overhead, out of the way. Tim only needs to be touched, _pleasured_ , worshipped, made to _come_ over and over; he doesn’t need his hands for that. No, no, he just needs to stop trying to stifle those _noises_ , needs to prove the Alpha is doing the job _right_.

His instincts combined with the overpowering scent of _Omega_ (of _Timmy_ ) suffering from Heat drives him harder, every touch with an edge, a claim, a leftover mark—kiss of teeth against his collarbone, the punishing grip bruising his wrists, the red marks sucked into his jugular and close enough to his scent glands that Tim moans softly, helplessly with it, making Dick’s hips jerk with the sound.

He makes his way to pert nipples, already tight from friction and arousal, and lines himself up, slides through the slick, revels in the scent of Tim’s body preparing itself for him, for _Alpha_. And it’s just so _good_ , how Tim smells and feels under him, the writhing body meeting his movements automatically, perfect under his hands, his mouth, giving him everything he never knew he _wanted_ so desperately.

“ _Fuck_ , Dick! I _can’t_ — I…I _need_ —“ but Tim bites down on the inside of his cheek to shut himself up.

Still, it’s just what Dick wants to hear.

This incredible Omega starting to get close to the edge of mindlessness, arching up, the hard muscles of his thighs trembling, spread around Dick’s hips so he _knows_ , he _feels_ it in every writhe of muscle and sinew—how much Tim needs _him_.

_Beautiful_.

His free hand moves down, tugs on the hard cock to make Tim shake again, and fingers go back to the warm _wet_ , replacing the head of his cock, and the motion earns a pained noise.

“N—No, not…not _that_ again.” Tim breathes out, eyes narrowing even while he arches.

Dick hums, his kisses gentling, “yes. Need to make sure you’re ready, Pretty Bird. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“I…can take it,” the wrists start moving, start pulling, start _fighting_.

“You haven’t had an Alpha before,” he counters gently, even while his grip tightens, keeps the weakening Omega pressed down, “it’s going to feel…overwhelming the first time. You have to be prepped for it,” and now he’s working three fingers _deep_.

Tim growls, wrists twisting, “ _Dick!_ ”

“We’ve got plenty of time, baby, but I need you to relax for me, okay? Just relax for me, Pretty Bird. Oh, _oh_ , that’s _better_. Look at you, so _wet_ , just _gorgeous_. You’re responding perfectly, being so good, such a good Omega for your Alpha.”

Where Dick can’t see, Tim _chokes_ with it even as his body relishes the praise and more slick leaks out on the fingers stretching him, his scent becoming stronger with his body’s reactions.

Dick Grayson’s inner Alpha revels in it, purrs in contentment, his instincts finally seem to ease down instead of making his whole body _tight_ , making him fight against the Alpha’s desire to _claim_. The Alpha instincts are pragmatic to the whole situation: _claiming the Omega will show him where he belongs, will prove to him we do not lie, that we will not abandon him. He will be **pack** again_.

And while Tim’s body writhes under the touch of his fingers, of his _mouth_ , so, _so_ sensitive, the reactions tell Dick how _long_ it’s been for him, how much Tim _needed_ to be taken care of. Tim like this, fighting against his own body (because he _had_ to be strong, his poor Timmy, who couldn’t let himself _give in_ —and the Alpha takes all the blame for the terrible things he’s done to force the Omega to this point), is a temptation, a sacrifice, a brother, a _lover,_ a ( _his_ ) Robin in _need_ , leaving Dick to fight with his inner Alpha against biting down, claiming without permission, without _consent_ (because even like this, Tim can’t consent to anything—not _really_ anyway). It didn’t matter if biting would give him every _right_ to take care of Tim, to make him stop to sleep, _eat_ , his to touch, to _take,_ to _own_ —

Dick moves quickly, biting down on the ball of Tim’s shoulder instead of the mouth-watering spot against his neck.

If he did it, if he bit _that spot_ , if he created a bond…

Tim would never forgive him, would never stop _fighting_ , would never stop _running_. He would violate the Omega’s trust, he would drive Tim even further away. Dick uses this logic against essentially _himself_ and the instincts driving him— the Omega ( _Tim_ ) had managed to survive being cast aside by his pack, had already been _betrayed_ , and this would just be another instance to force him to run and _stay gone_. And his strength to resist the temptation ( _God, Timmy, you smell so, so good, feel so perfect, so right, under me_ ) comes from _that thought_ , he won’t betray Tim again, he _can’t_. He can’t lose him again, _he can’t drive him away a second time_ —and the Alpha in him eases off, a low whimpering in his chest at the thought of their Omega hating them, running from them, staying _gone_. (Again)

He can’t let that _happen_. This time he is going to protect and care for the ( _his_ ) former Robin. He is going to make Tim feel _safe_ , like he might be able to, someday, trust again—that he doesn’t have to keep walking through life on his own. Dick would take all these vulnerabilities into his safekeeping, would give Tim a space to allow himself to be weak when he needed it, give him a safe place to fall, to reach out and _catch_. He is going to give Tim the safety net _back_ , make sure he _understands_.

Well, everyone needs to have a goal, right?

And while the Alpha growls a low, soothing tone, the Omega closes his eyes _tight_ against words that should just roll away, that should mean _nothing_ (and he’s always been so good at _hiding_ , deflecting, fooling the majority of the superhero community for almost a decade), but still strike him right in the place that _knows better_.

“Never wanted to be knotted,” Tim blurts out abruptly, half stuttering as Dick’s fingers stretch him even further with that _mouth_ working him over again, and _God_ , he’s _panting_ , everything fuzzy around the edges. “Only during Heat, ‘n even then—n-not really.”

The part of Dick not _Alpha_ inhales the information while he still moves his hips to rub them together, to nose at scarred skin, to lick and suck. He hums low so Tim knows he _hears_ him, is _listening_.

And even as close to _fucked-out_ without actually being fucked as he can get, Tim still has the presence of mind to think about _full disclosure._ “Not ahh, ah…I’m a…ah, I’m a fucking… terrible Omega.”

Fingers crook and rub again, making Tim’s hips jerk, makes him bite down on his already bloody lip to keep the noises _in_. Dick leans up, breathes against his neck, his working brain hopes for more, that Tim might just keep talking, might lay himself bare (because _God_ , he wants to know it all, everything Tim can tell him, the man and the Alpha will take it _all_ ) before the full-blown portion of his Heat kicks in, will make him nothing short of _mindless_ (hopefully).

“I’m…something’s…something’s _wrong_ with me.” Another crook of those fingers working in and out of him and Tim has to lock the noise behind his teeth as his eyes water with all the sensations. Fire races up and down his spine, making him fully aware of how _empty_ he is, how fingers just _aren’t enough_ , how much he _wants_ to be _filled_ —

(And it’s the first Heat he’s suffered when he’s actually _wanted_ to be knotted, wanted to be **kept** , but there’s enough reasons for him to pass it off as stupid _instincts_ —right?)

His body arches further into the hovering Alpha, and it’s like _nothing_ he’s experienced before. He’s been alone and well-hidden for all his previous Heats, ducking a well-guarded safe house under the noses of WE’s accountants; intimately, he’s been with Steph, Kon, Tam, and a few one night stands during his year in exile. Betas, other Omegas (except Kon, a null, so no need for a knot), _safety_. An Alpha would sniff his secret out too easily during sex, he’d never been able to chance it, even when he went undercover in clubs. But _this_ , this rising _need_ in his body, the instinct to relax back into the bedding and let himself be overwhelmed, be taken by Dick, an _Alpha_ , to be taken care _of_ …

It’s intoxicating. It’s a dangerous _enticement_.

“Explain.” But Dick’s voice is a deep growl, a whole different definition than N or even as Batman—it’s a tone that comes from far down in his chest, a wildness never present in the vigilante. He works the Omega _harder_ , wanting, _needing_ , to pull more _noises_ out of his Pretty Bird, wants to give Tim everything he needs to fight against those insecurities, to prove him _wrong_.

“I—I _can’t_ , I just _know_ —” _that’s why I’ve never been_ kept _._ _It all makes sense, plenty of evidence to support it._

(Because _really_ , who wanted a defective Omega anyway?)

Dick’s fingers slide out of him, making him _burn_ even more without _something_ , but the working part of his brain is already berating him for ruining this, ready to call out the unlock code to the Perch so Dick can leave if that’s what he wants, plans on getting some clothes on, synthesizing a part suppressant, part sedative until it’s all _over_ , and he can just—

(The _instincts_ make him want to cower in the corner, cry and whine for driving off his _Alpha_ , for being abandoned _again_ when he just _needs—_ but that’s the real reason behind the suppressants, isn’t it? So he won’t have to relive it whenever his Heat eventually struck again and he was alone… _he wouldn’t have to be face-to-face with it_ )

Dick turns him back (and he didn’t realize he’d turned away until now) and takes his mouth again, tasting him, teasing him, licking at his tongue, and just _God_ what…?

“I—” when Dick pulls back, “ _never_ want to hear you say that again.” And he lines up, the head of his cock rubbing against Tim’s drenched entrance, spreading slick around. “You are so fucking _brave_ , Pretty Bird. You _chose_ to stand with us all these years—kept choosing it, kept _fighting_. You’ve sacrificed so much, so fucking _much_. More than any of us, more than _all_ of us. And now that you’re finally _home_ again, and you do the same things you’ve always done _,_ fight with us, take _care_ of us.”

And he tries to be so easy, so _gentle_ because Tim’s never had an Alpha before, never been _knotted,_ and it makes Dick Grayson so utterly _hot_ to know he’s going to be the _first_. His hips push while he talks, trembling slightly when he breaches that tight ring of muscle, staring down into those eyes, at that broken expression on his Omega’s face (because Tim _believed_ what he was saying… _Christ, he actually believes it_ ), the blood on his mouth, his wet, averted eyes—

“ _Look at me_ ,” said in a deep growl, the wildness in him, _demanding_.

The tone goes right to the part of him he _loathes_ , he _fights_ , and Tim is still helpless to do anything other than _obey_. (If it were anyone _else_ , he could have, couldn’t he? But this is _Dick_ , who he’s been mostly in love with a majority of his life, the man that hurt him, the man he could never really walk _away_ from, the one taking care of him right now even though it’s just because he’s a fucking _Omega_ and those Alpha instincts—)

“You are Omega _perfection_ , Timmy.” Dick breathes, looming over him, his free hand under one of Tim’s knees, lifting slightly while his hips move, “the next generation, Omega 2.0—strong and brave and fucking _beautiful_.”

He almost, _almost_ comes back to argue the point (to _deny_ ) but instead, he chokes, whimpers low and surprised when Dick starts pushing in, opening him up _wide_ —wider than he ever though he could even _take_ , and just _fuck, it’s so much, so good, so painful_.

“It doesn’t matter how far you go, how _long_ you’re gone,” and Dick is panting, sweat glistening on his bare chest, his eyes wild and _dark_ , “you’re part of _my_ pack. _Mine_ , Tim. Always.”

And those hips twitch, push, and _God_ , he can feel every inch sliding into him, hear how wet he is for _this_.

“Breathe, baby,” Dick whispers, leaning down to nose against Tim’s face as soon as their eye contact is broken, the Omega turning away as his body is opened, “I know, I _know_ , but you have to breathe for me.”

Tim takes a shaky breath, eyes squeezed closed against Dick’s invasion, his thighs trembling against the Alpha’s hips. The sides of his face are wet, but he’s too far into how overwhelming it is to be So. Fucking. _Full_.  He’s too far gone to notice the tongue tasting his tears, the mouth working under his jaw, sucking on his throat, licking the path up, trying to nose his face out of his own restrained arm.

“Perfect, fucking _perfect_. Oh _God_ , Timmy, you’re so wet and tight just for me. You’re so _good_ to your Alpha, baby.”

He can only gasp in another breath, his hard cock giving a throb at those words, and a gush of slick makes the glide even _easier_.

Dick is shaky by the time he’s buried to his knot, panting, still holding Tim’s hands over his head, and engulfed in tight, wet, _heat_ ; it’s almost too much, calling to the wildness in him to draw back and _take_. The Alpha wants to make the Omega come _screaming_ over and over, to pound the lesson _home_.

He waits until he’s in control of himself, wrangling his instincts in, making himself give Pretty Bird trembling under him time to adjust. He rubs his cheeks against the side of a hot face, his other hand moving to rub soothing circles on a shaky thigh.

And something deep in Timothy Jackson Drake, something long _lost_ , forgotten, _denied_ , seems to rise up and curl around his spine, work its way up his hyper-sensitive skin. It crests, tumbling out of his throat in a whine of pure _need_.

( _Was that—was that me? Well, fuck, guess so, Detective)_

The noise, so soft, a barely there _plea_ , makes Dick shiver in reaction, of Tim’s inner Omega finally peeking through (but the sound is choked, hoarse, _neglected_ , and _Timmy_ , _baby_ …he’s been abandoned so long the instinct to _call out_ to his pack has almost completely _died_ ). Biting into his cheek, Dick shifts slightly to cover more of Tim with his body, skin sliding against skin.

“I’ve got you, Pretty Bird,” and he gingerly releases Tim’s wrists, already hoping for bruises he can look at, marks so Timmy _remembers everything_ , “hold on to me, okay?”

Seemingly running on autopilot, Tim follows those orders, sliding his arms around Dick’s shoulders to _hold the fuck on_ and move enough to bury his face away from those eyes, from scrutiny, from stupid praise and comfort he didn’t ( _did_ ) deserve—

Dick’s hips shift, just a test, but it makes Tim’s twitch with the slow glide back out. Gentle, easy push back in makes his hands fist harder because _God,_ he’s _so full_.

And his brain spits out how _long_ it’s been since he’s had _this_ ( _Kon was the last_ ), how the sensitive nerves are tingling, sending sparks of pain/pleasure up his spine, igniting old wants, old desires, childish fantasies _just like this one_ starring the Dick Grayson he trusted with _everything_ (and it’s still _there_ somewhat, the distance and old hurts, but this new, still slightly tentative relationship is already on the path to believing all the formerly pointless _words_ about family and support, things he’d thought he’d given up on until the damn Bats starting putting real _effort_ into making him come _back_ —).

But the plans, the attempt to keep himself distant (reads as _safe_ ) have been crumbling, the walls against Dick weakening for some time, and just—

_Let me take care of you_

He wants to.

_Fuck does he want to_.

( _Only give in enough, just enough, never all the way, never again_ )

“Talk to me, baby,” oh so gentle against his jaw while his body opens even _more_ , takes what Dick is giving, “I need to know if you’re with me.”

His only answer is to meet the next thrust, wrapping his legs around Dick’s waist and pulling himself _up_ , half-sobbing with his face hidden.

“Fuck _yes_ ,” is panted out against Dick’s jugular when he does it again.

That _shaking_? That’s just Dick laughing (you know, like an _asshole_ ) and nosing his face up, finally getting to his mouth again. They both gasp into it when he draws back to bury himself _deep_.

It starts out _easy_ , the long, slow pace Dick sets right off, trying to give him time to ease into it (because the voice of his inner Alpha is still preening about _first_ and _gentle_ before he shows Timmy exactly when being taken _means_ ), but it only succeeds in making him moan in that _mouth_ when his body goes from _so much, too much_ to _more, more, more_ , shifting in the extremes.

His thighs tighten around Dick’s hips while the Alpha’s tongue maps his mouth, swallows any noises that might accidentally get through, fills him up over and over, makes the burn in his abdomen ignite, turns up the heat. He doesn’t even _realize_ he’s gripping so _tight_. Muscles bunching with movement and smooth, scarred skin under his hands, and if he gets this chance, if Dick is really going to see him through the Heat…

_He’s going to take advantage of it_.

His ankles unlock, grip shifting to get leverage. The Alpha’s rhythm stutters, knowing _something_ is building, but the Omega still uses his momentum to throw them over in a sloppy roll to put him on top.

Dick’s hand shift with the throw, grip his hips hard enough to bruise ( _to keep them connected_ ), and Tim has his knees under himself enough to rise up until just the tip is in him and then pant out a noise before he _drops_.

“ _Fuck!”_ is less a yell than a whine when he starts moving, rolling his hips, taking _more_. He leans back, braces his palms on the bed by Dick’s knees, finds that _spot_ on the next drop.

“ _God_ , baby, yes. _Yes_. Look at you, look how beautiful you are. Take me, Tim. _Take me_. Take your Alpha, show me what feels good.”

His head drops back and those _hands_ pull him down _harder_ , forcing Dick’s knot against his rim, trying to open him up _more_ so he can be—

And knowing he can _have_ it, that Dick is going to be right here, is going to knot him, is going to make him come _screaming_ , finally draws an unhindered, low moan from deep in his chest, the Omega in him _needs, craves_. Without the suppressants in his system, it’s harder to fight back the instincts, and as he drives himself faster, harder on Dick’s thick Alpha cock, eyes half-mast, upper body arched back on display, to show the Alpha everything.

Growling low, Dick sits up to run his tongue over the muscle and scars, hands tightening on hips to take more control, to use his strength and move Timmy to make sure he’s hitting that _spot_ every time, to grind his knot against the rim, to give him even _more_. His teeth might ghost over the sensitive skin right below the scent gland, tongue coming out to _taste_ there, to half-moan, half-growl against that spot.

“I won’t,” is a hoarse admission, “because you wouldn’t forgive me. But it doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

Even in Dick’s grip, Tim’s hips stutter on the drop and stay, seating himself on the Alpha’s massive length, taking it down to the knot.

The pause while the vigilante shoves at the utter contentment of his inner Omega to fight back enough to be able to _think_ past the fire in his veins building higher and _higher_ , the throb of his body, the sedated feeling of an Alpha deep inside him where he _needed_ —

“You’d regret it,” he manages to rasp out but can’t keep his hips from snapping in tight circles, the wet squelch of their bodies meeting obscene even with Dick’s feral gaze going from his throat back up to his hot face. “So would I.” Because, well, only serious _douche bags_ trapped an Alpha during a Heat or a Rut when Alphas are the most sensitive, cuddly (well, _normal_ Alphas that is), but in reality, he’s forcing his heart to slow down, the spikes of pleasure, disbelief, and abject _fear_ at Dick’s admission ( _“it doesn’t mean I don’t want to”_ ) crawling through his chest.

The Omega in him preens again, the heat picking back up (because _Alpha wants to own him, bite him, **keep** him_ ) and the possibilities, the evidence—

And his thoughts break, fracture apart as his world is thrown around when Dick _moves_ , fast and efficient; it’s part Nightwing, part Alpha, the strength, the firm touch, the surety of his hands when he maneuvers Tim, turns him, brings him back, pushes to fit their bodies together, back-to-front. Dick’s chest and abdomen seem to fit perfectly into the curve of his back and shoulders, the heat rising off Dick’s skin making him _hotter_ , making him push his hips back against a deep, seating thrust, opening him up even _more_ with the knot pressing hard against his rim, a promise of what he has to look forward to. ( _And God does he **want it**_ )

Dick’s chest vibrates against him, a rolling growl while seated so deep inside, one arm across his body to keep him in place (and his brain shorts out when the thought of a heavy hand—Dick’s hand—on the back of his neck, ready to push him down, to make him _submit_ , to take him with his ass in the air like a good Omega).

“Tell me, Timmy,” he leans down to mouth at the Omega’s throat again, ignoring the hitching breath while his mouth is close to the scent glands and bonding spot, just drawing in that sweet musk into himself with a groan. “Tell your Alpha what you _need_.”

It’s already there, right in the back of his mouth with Dick’s taste, ready to spill out with a push from those long-forgotten instincts, it’s only because he can’t get a full breath—

“I need…Dick, I _need_ — please, _please_.”

The Alpha’s hand fists in the back of his head, pulls him back by the hair, and the kiss is brutal, full of _hunger_. It’s _taking_ , and those carved hips start to _move_.

The rolling rhythm is endless, driving him to the edge of sanity with every fast, hard thrust against his spot and the burn of being filled but just _not enough_. And the noises are falling out of his throat with the gaining momentum, with the rise of the fire in his veins taking _over_ so he can’t think of anything other than one of Dick’s hands skimming over his aching nipples, tugging at his leaking cock while he pants and moans into Tim’s shoulder, while he keeps _talking_ —

“— _mine_ , baby, do you understand? When your Heat’s done, we’re talking, but until then, you’re _mine_.”

He can’t even register the pain of biting down on his busted lip anymore, the pleasure arching through his abdomen, throbbing into his _spine_ is too much, _too much to process_.

“—Omega of _my_ pack. _Mine_ , Tim. Mine to hold, mine to care for, mine to _fuck_ , mine to _knot_.”

The deep, darkness in that tone, the complete and total ownership almost has him coming on the next thrust into his body, all of it hitting him right where the Omega _cries_ for it, _craves_ it, has mourned being so utterly _alone_. Each claim, mark of _ownership_ brings all those instincts right to the fore, warring with his rational mind, and even _that_ —

( _No mating bite—no force, just Dick…Alpha…Alpha taking care of me_ )

_Pleasepleasepleaseplease_

“I should have never let you go,” is the hoarse admission, panted out against the side of his head while the pace picks up, _faster, more_ , earning a cry when his body just _takes_ what his Alpha is giving, bringing him closer and _closer_. “I’ll never make that mistake again. Do you hear me, Tim? _I won’t let you go a second time_.”

And the Omega sobs out, drops his chin to his chest, bares the back of his neck because he _needs_ , he has to _have_ —

“A-Alpha… _Alpha_ ,” stuttered between thrusts into his drenched opening, pleading as he’s held tight against Dick’s body so fucking _tight_.

“Oh _baby_ ,” Dick moans into the exposed neck, hand already moving to give Tim what he’s asking for. “ _Baby_.”

The low, barely-there whine is all the answer he needs.

Dick draws out, eases himself back enough to run one hand from the base of Tim’s spine _up_ , splaying his fingers _wide_ ; where the Omega can’t see, the Alpha’s pupils are blown, the pleased growl vibrating _deep_ as his hand comes to rest on the back of his Omega’s neck and _squeeze_.

Tim’s knees tremble hard with the effort to stay up on his own with the pressure of that hand, the hard, pleasurable throb connecting Dick’s grip with the tip of his aching cock. His thoughts get hazier with it, with _this_ , and his body moves automatically when Dick pushes, presses him down, forehead against the sloppy sheets, accepts the Omega’s offer. He raises his hips to accept the Alpha back into his body, and _submits_ (and the working part of his brain not gloriously burning, working toward a spectacular orgasm in the kick-off to his Heat, faintly realizes he’s giving Dick something he’s never given _anyone_ , never trusted anyone else enough to _do it_ , to give over his _everything_ and _fuck_ does it feel _good_ ).

And a whole body shudder wracks him while he pants, and the sheets absorb some of the high noises coming out of his mouth at _this_ , finally, _finally_ giving _in_.

“—so beautiful, Tim. I’m going to take such good care of you, I promise. _Fuck_ , you’re being so good for me, letting me give you what you need.”

The hand on the back of his neck tightens, sending more sensation through his tightly-wound body, and the head of Dick’s cock presses against him again while the Alpha’s free arm is wrapped around his waist, holds him still for it.

“My pretty Omega needs his Alpha’s knot, doesn’t he?”

Fisting his hands in whatever he can grip, his brain half-working, his body is on _fire_ for it, to be _that full_ , he manages to gasp out, “y-yes. _Yes_. Dick… _Alpha_ ,” because he’s so fucking _empty_ and it _hurts_ —

The hand holding him down, _holding him_ , anchors him in the burning need pumping through his body, eases the tense muscles (and he’s too far gone to hear the series of pained whimpers muffled against the bedsheets, noises that make his Alpha growl low and soothing, those pained noises the Alpha _won’t stand for_ ).

His back arches to meet the push of Dick’s hips, the pull of the arm around him, and all that skin fits right back into the niches of his body when Dick drapes himself over the submitting Omega, rears back and drives himself in _deep_ , his thick knot _aching_ where it’s pressed right up against the sweet, wet opening.

The first jarring thrust—

“So _good, so good,_ for me, my Omega, _mine_ ,” the second even _harder_ , making Tim almost _scream_.

“And you’re going to come on my knot like a good boy, aren’t you? Oh, fuck, yes, you are, Tim. You’re so _close_ , so _ready_ , right where I want you.” The third opens him up, pushes the knot just _almost_ inside him, making him pull uselessly at the fists full of sheets while his cock _throbs_ and slick slides down his thighs. And he’s so, so _close_ , he needs, he _needs_ —

The fourth pushes the knot fully inside him, seats Dick completely in his body and he cries out, half-scream, half-sob as his Alpha echoes him, biting down on the ball of his shoulder again as the knot pulses inside him and starts to fill him _up_.

Pleasure races hard down his spine, going right to his cock and the bundle of nerves being nudged by the knot, and his body _explodes_ with it, with the expanding knot locking them together. And before his vision goes dark, his instincts croon that it’s all somehow absolutely _everything_ he’s ever needed.

**

He comes to slightly when Dick’s knot finally goes down, a rough noise coming from his chest at the last influx of seed and hormones into his body, killing off the remaining bits of fire in his veins until a new round of Heat starts up. He feels it to his very core when their bodies slide apart thickly, wetly, and his mind fights against going fuzzy again like, you know, a _normal_ Omega who is completely sated.  

Even half-aware, his arms try to firm when they disconnect, to push off so he can land beside Dick instead of sprawled all over him—but, well, _octopus hold engaged_. (And how the hell did Dick maneuver them to be in this position while they were still locked together? It’ll be a mystery for when he can muster up enough will to really give a damn).

A hand is moving up into his hair, fingernails scratching lightly at his scalp, completely exploiting his weakness; the other winds around his back, exudes pressure to put him right back down on top Dick’s chest while someone makes a gentle purring noise (that he will later realize, _mortified_ , that is was _him_ making that noise) and lulls him right back down to mostly floating.

“It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you. You need to sleep for a while, but I’m here. Your Alpha isn’t leaving you.” Nuzzling at the side of his face, words spoken in his ear. “I promise, Timmy. I’m not leaving you again.”

With his face smushed against Dick’s chest and his instincts making his insides soft and warm, he blinks quickly, muttering, “A-Alpha,” before—

_Out_

The next time he blinks his hazy eyes open, the water is lazily lapping up high on his chest. He’s with it enough to recognize the big bathtub in the Perch as a soft cloth run gently over his hyper-sensitive skin, washing him tenderly. The Alpha at his back hums and nuzzles into his throat. The scent of pure _contentment_ rolls off of Dick, powerful enough to rouse the fucked-out Omega just slightly. His back muscles tense like he might get up, but—

“Sshh, shhh, it’s okay,” Dick whispers against his temple, the motion never stopping, “you’re safe. I’m right here with you.”

“Dick,” comes out slurry and low.

“Mmhm. It’s just us, it’s okay.” And the nuzzling doesn’t stop, a tongue chases the water down his throat to his shoulder, warm breath making his nipples harden again. “Gonna get you clean and then I get to feed you, okay? Oh, Pretty Bird is so good for me, such a good Omega for his Alpha, letting me take care of you.”

Tim moans softly at the praise while the other half rails at him for not washing himself, taking care of _himself_ —

“No, no, baby. You don’t have to, that’s what you have _me_ for.” Dick pointedly sucks a little at the spot right above his scent glands, making Tim’s muscles absolutely _weak_. “You have me to take care of you right now.”

He breathes out, head lolling on Dick’s shoulder where his wet hair drips on them both, eyes half-mast.

“That’s right, just relax,” a hum against his throat, the scent of happy Alpha in his nose again. “So good. So _good_ for me.”

And his brain fuzzes over, half-aware, his body slack in Dick’s arms. He doesn’t bother fighting when he’s lifted and Dick sits on the toilet with Tim still in his lap and starts drying him off with gentle hands, petting him, soothing him with a rumbling purr and more of those _words_ —

_So good_

_Mine. My Omega._

_Perfect for me, Pretty Bird, just perfect_.

He ends up back in his bed in the Perch, the sheets changed at some point when he wasn’t all there, naked and cradled against Dick’s side while the Alpha coos at him and handfeeds him pieces of fruit and cheese, makes him take drinks of water, picks up turkey and roast beef.

At some point when he rouses more out of the soft, warm headspace to be really aware, he looks up at his Alpha while he chews, taking in the pleased expression on Dick’s face, the darkness of his eyes, and—

( _He needs this,_ is the Detective’s realization, _he hasn’t had an Omega to care for since he left the Titans. This…caring for an Omega, makes him happy—then, it’s fine, isn’t it?_ )

“That’s right, baby. Take what you need. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, Alpha,” falls out of his mouth without provocation, but Dick’s eyes get _darker_ , the pupils dilating, and pressed up against him this close, Tim knows how those words affect him, maybe how much Dick needed to hear them.

“Good. I’m so glad I can take care of you, Timmy, thank-you,” and Dick presses a kiss to his forehead, pulling him in even closer to wrap both arms around him, to huddle them together.

And here, like this, with nothing else between them, no masks, no Mission, no Bats, no _world_ to tear them apart, Tim can finally ease down. His half-muddled brain knows there will be a talk coming after his Heat is over, knows the Bats are going to want to have words too. He _knows_ the fact he’d made his body go so _long_ without a normal Heat would be a point of contention, not to mention the Titans were aware of his orientation and the Bats weren’t will eventually come up too (and _no_ , he’s not going to think about it right now, the past doesn’t have a place here, not until the real world had to be dealt with again).

With Dick’s hands skimming lightly over his back and shoulders, with the feeling of being so _fucking_ safe for the first time in God knew how long, with the beginnings of the familiar _burn_ starting to warm up in his veins, all he wants to focus on is making Dick’s instincts satisfied, to make his Alpha _happy_.

After another drink of water, Tim lets himself _go_ , relaxes his rigid, hard-won control over his instincts, and nuzzles back into Dick’s neck, breathing against the older man’s jugular while he noses behind an ear. His muscles are coming out of the jelly stage and he moves a hand up to palm the side of his Alpha’s throat. He can’t ( _can_ ) control his mouth when he licks at the tendons, teeth set to nibble, when his hips start to move against Dick’s thigh, when his free hand splays out to _touch_ the front of his Alpha’s body, when he moans low.

The rolling purr starts vibrating again and a broad palm skims up between his shoulder blades, moving toward the back of his neck, and Tim makes a noise, something needy as fuck.

He doesn’t even think about it when he latches on to the soft skin under Dick’s scent gland, pulling at the spot to _suck_. (But he’s _damn_ sure satisfied at the abrupt yell, the jerk of those hips under him in reaction).

“Timmy…”  

_Later will happen_ , he thinks dazedly to himself when Dick’s tongue pushes inside his mouth again, tasting him, and those hands start to move over his body, waking him up, _calling_ to him. But for the moment, he needs all the brain power he can muster since, well, _you know_ , time to make _plans_ for right now and such.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always lovely, thanks for reading ;)


	2. 3 in 1 Soulmate AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From this prompt: Hey! I just finished my finals and I need something to lift me up. Your stories always manage to accomplish that. Can you please take up this prompt: soul-mates AU where you can see colors for the first time once you meet your soulmate. Of course, one of the main people has to be Tim Drake. Whether the POV is the other soulmate, or his, your pick. Please and thank you for all your awesomeness!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe a 3 + 1? Three Times Tim Drake Found a Soulmate and the one Time his Soulmate found him? Something like that.

Dick/Tim

That day two things happened:

The Flying Graysons fell to their deaths on the trapeze.

Tim Drake saw in color for the first time, staring up at the young boy holding him, in _awe_.

After the picture, se’s pulled away from Dick’s arms, Dick’s _smile_ , and he hears the promise, the _I’ll do a quadruple summer sault just for you, Timmy!_

And Dick’s eyes had been _blue_. The real thing, he just _knew it_ , but Mom and Dad were too busy, arguing in that scary, quiet way—they would need to go on separate trips this time. Six months and they’d be back together, off again.

While in the audience, enrapt with the young acrobat sailing through the air, he could only try to catch his _breath_.

Until the rope snapped, and there was no net.

The fragile bond darkened, grew heavy enough to make the child _ache_ with it, made him move, but he had only a few minutes sitting beside the weeping acrobat, offering a handkerchief, helpless to do anything but grip and _hold on_. The police were the ones to pull him away, back to his parents, back to a silent house and empty rooms, not to see his soulmate for eight more years.

**

By nine, he has enough of a handle on the world to put together his own _esthetic_ : thou shalt be the ultimate _fanboy_. The Batman and his sidekick, Robin, were only natural to start with considering _close to home_ , combined with the fact his hero is in that yellow cape and pixie boots. It causes a strange surge of pride and fear when he stays hidden on fire escapes, in alley ways, behind dumpsters, ducking in trees and under bushes, when he _sees_ Robin in action, throwing himself around the scary supervillains, usually laughing and quipping.

He doesn’t understand _why_ he has these feelings, isn’t old enough to really _get it_. Soulmates were so rare, and so _what_ if he could see color? Maybe someone else at the circus—

And he takes another picture: the Dark Knight with his Robin taking off into the darkness.

**

At twelve, he’s gathered every ounce of courage—and goes to _find him_ and maybe, hopefully bring him _back_.

It’s bad, so, so bad, and he has all the necessary proof in hand.

Dick has to come back. _Has_ to be Robin again.

The whole sordid story ended with a legacy, a legacy he didn’t _want_ no matter how much he watched and learned. The name was Dick’s first, and he couldn’t take that away, couldn’t _be_ in that shadow, but he’s managed to trap himself. Dick won’t, _can’t_ be what the Batman needs to keep him from the abyss—too many years, too much pain over Jason for them to go back to the partners they _used_ to be. They’d need help to get there, and if he could only survive as Robin long enough to bring them back together—

And that, he decides, the first time Bruce brings him down into the Cave ( _and Dick just **left** , just went back to New York, back his **life** , without even saying good-bye…)_, to start _training_ him, is going to be the _plan_.

**

His teenage years are the best in _existence_. Dick is always around, playing big brother. They train surf, play stupid board games, patch each other up after a hard night, and celebrate when everything is right with the world. It doesn’t take too much to actually think Dick has figured it _out_.

Then the downfall.

Everyone around his starts dying. Dick apartment explodes, obliterates his memories and precious things.

And then…

Bruce.

The Battle for the Cowl.

Dick as the Bat, and it’s not like that time when the mantel was taken from Jean-Paul Valley, when he and Dick started to be _partners_.

No, it’s very, very _different_.

**

Red Robin stays the hell away from Gotham City. He’s done his part, saved a shit _ton_ of people, lost a semi-important body part, and proved he wasn’t insane by bringing B back from somewhere in space/time.

At some point, a year or so after Dick took up N in Gotham, the phone calls started coming, going to his voicemail.

_*It’s been a while! We should hang out, like, you know, the old days. I miss you, Timmy. Call me back.*_

He doesn’t call.

Apparently he doesn’t call long enough that Nightwing shows up in Titan’s Tower, tired of being ignored.

“What intel do you need?”

“ _Seriously?_ You think I’m here because of _that?_ Dammit, Timmy—“

“Don’t you have a city to go back to?”

“I—“

“It would be better if you go, Dick, really. We aren’t whatever this is anymore.”

“ _Tim_ , what the hell does _that_ mean?!”

The argument hadn’t been pretty, but Red gives himself all the kudos for standing firm, staying aloof and away, giving himself the needed space for old hurts and rejections to breathe, to give him strength, to send his soulmate back into the world where he obviously needed to be.

Dick doesn’t make it easy but finally gives in to leave the Tower, looking lost and… _worried_.

But Red had his moments, _they_ had their opportunities.

It’s time to move on.

**

In less than six months, things have taken a 180.

Dick returned shortly after their fight and pretty much claimed total dibs to the Communal Floor couch while he worked on getting Tim _back_.

The volumes of unspoken things ( _I never wanted to hurt you; I made the best choices, but I could have done it so differently_ ) lie between them, making the Titans rally behind their bird and the Tower always tense. Red takes off enough to keep himself sane, running away from his damn soulmate to fight Ra’s or spy on the Brotherhood, go undercover into an underground fight club or an arm’s deal in crummy warehouses.

In each scenario, no matter how well he covers his tracks—

Nightwing always makes an eventual appearance, making him re-learn how to fight with a Bat.

He hates it at the same moment some piece of his soul _craves_.

**

In another six months, Dick has become terribly clingy, calling Red back to Gotham every other damn _week_ with a new case, a new bad guy, a new batch of intel, and just _c’mon, Timmy, it’s **me** here. Come home for a while. I miss you_.

And damn him.

He goes.

**

Another few months fly by, and he’s breaking into Dick’s apartment to order pizza, change into baggy t-shirts and too-long sweats, taking a nap on Dick’s couch while something inane plays on the television in the background.

When he manages to open his eyes again, he’s laying half in Dick’s lap, the older vigilante leaving Officer Grayson outside, while fingers run through his hair, blunt nails scratch soothingly against his scalp.

It’s Dick, blue eyes ( _that deep, dark blue_ ) looking down at him softly, “go back to sleep. You’ve been working too hard again, haven’t you, Timmy?”

He doesn’t need to answer, just relax back down, and lets go—

**

And it’s taken so _much_ to see what he’d almost let happen. How he’d almost let Tim just fade away.

He’d been so _fucking wrong_ at the time, not being able to see past the immediate problems; he hadn’t been able to see the pain, the long row of trials and tribulations laying at Tim’s weary feet.

Tim was seventeen at the time.

_Seventeen_.

Once Dick started to _realize_ he didn’t _know_ who Red Robin was anymore, that Gotham was suspiciously empty, he pulled out the detective card and started looking for the answers to his many, _many_ questions.

He traced the whole year of Tim’s journey to find proof Bruce was alive, horrified when he found damaged footage of the Cradle, watching Tim come to on a slab right by the Lazarus Pit, fighting after major surgery to remove his spleen. Sick when he watched the former Robin taking on the Council of Spiders on his own. Tracked down reports from the Tower’s mainframe to place all the cases filling in the gaps between major Titan battles.

His defining moment, when he pulled Red Robin out of the way of a bomb (that blew them right the hell up _anyway_ ), and followed the team into their medical floor to treat the unconscious bird.

The armor and undersuit came off and—

“Good _God,_ ” was the only thing he could formulate while the angry Titans ignored him and went about what was obviously _rote_ for them.

Plan: Bring Timmy Back to the Bats was a _go_ from then on.

And the time it took to slowly wiggle his way back into Red Robin’s _life_ was worth every second.

He’d forgotten how calm Tim made him, how at _ease_ in his own skin. And a year and a half after the plan was set in motion, he held a sleeping nineteen year old on his lap while some asinine something plays on his television. It soothes him to run his fingers through the too-long hair, to scratch at his scalp, to get hugs that make him warm and somehow _satisfied_.

He unabashedly nuzzles against the top of Tim’s head, seeing the flicker of light against the dark hair and doesn’t think much of anything else than how _nice_ it is to have this weight on him, against him. How much he’s come to _need_ Tim back in his life, to snark with him, to be regular civilians together, to work the night job, to watch stupid movie and throw popcorn at the screen, to be able to _call_ him and make sure he’s sleeping and eating, to let Tim do the same.

Flicker at the tip of Tim’s nose when Dick leans down to press their foreheads together without waking the younger bird, and he gasps gently when he realizes Tim’s eyebrows are dark against pale skin—not in shades of black or white. Not—

_Oh God_.

His own hand is darker against Tim’s cheek, his Romani background, the tan mesmerizing him for long, agonizing moments.

The empty Zesti can on the end table reads _Grape_ and he associates _purple_ , with a blink he _knows_ what that means.

And the slight pink ( _pink_ ) to Tim’s mouth is the next fixation, his eyes staying right on that perfect, pert mouth when the fullness is accentuated with _color_.

His hands are holding too tight, too _close_ , and Tim wakes up, groggy and mumbling, trying to pull away and sit up with some half-coherent madness about killer robots and the quantum mechanics behind the multiverses.

But Dick can’t let him go an _inch_ , can do anything but desperately _hold on_.

**

Jay/Tim

And he comes rising out of the water, _reborn_.

He comes into the world screaming, for a _third time_.

The red hot searing in his brain, his hand and feet, his throat and chest, brings him to _life_. ( _“The monster is not in my face, but in my **soul.**_ ”)

Broken pieces flit through his half-functioning brain while his body works on auto-pilot, sloshing through the burning waters, and the hazy film, the _rage_ is right there for every synapsis to _take hold_ —

“Take my hand,” and the masked boy reaches out from above the water’s edge. “Jason. You are _Jason Peter Todd_.”

And the growl from his chest, the noise of warning, of _danger_ echoes in the shadowy cave, reverberates, his eyes wide, jade, hands curling into claw shapes for renting and tearing—

“Jay… _Jay_ , come _back_. Come the _fuck back_.”

But he’s already stalking, jumping up, closing in to the red and black clad—

_Red?_

“You’re my Robin,” the mouth moves and he can’t focus enough to get the words, just watch it move because _red_ and _pink_ and _pale_ are things his brain, his _eyes_ register, cutting through the haze.

“Jason, you were _and still are_ my Robin.”

The purpose is different now, more _important_. He moves to grip and pull, to hold his colorful body against his own, hands clutching the hips too tight, forming bruises that would hurt like a _bitch_ later.

And the name _Jason_ has no effect, there isn’t enough _there_ to register anything other than bare instincts and controls.

Even if he’s soaked in the waters of the Pit, he still holds the masked boy hard against him and interrupts that talking mouth to bring them together, to eat at those pink lips, rub his tongue against the red one, to draw out a noise from the chest pressed against his own, thread his fingers in too-long hair and just _hold on_.

**

Tim/Dami

“Stop, _don’t move_.”

He did not listen.

Rather, he chose to move forward, to give chase to the criminals running out of Gotham National Bank. It is instinct bred into his _bones_.

The resounding explosion when he trips the obvious trap is, of course, _two-fold_. Harvey Dent would do no less.

When he comes to, his hearing is scattered, blinking blood and debris out of his eyes.

It takes him a moment longer than necessary to realize the blood is not his own, and also—

The blood is _red_. A sickeningly _vibrant_ color, making him more nauseous, enough to turn his head and vomit bile.

Gasping, chest stuttering, he isn’t certain how long he’s been breathing in the smoke and dust from the explosion, he know, however, the unconscious vigilante bleeding out on top of him should not be there, could not have been thrown this way by the ignited charges.

Robin grips Red by the harness, pulls, inches them both along slowly, painfully, already activating the tracking device in his utility belt.

Stupidly, he stares at the disappearing line of freckles going up into the cowl, talking while waiting on _someone_ to come for them. He’s managed to brace himself against the intact wall of the bank with Red Robin in his lap, sluggishly bleeding out while Robin babbles on about impossibilities and statistics about how idiotic he is for throwing himself in the line of danger, how utterly self-sacrificing is not a desirable trait in a mate. His ranting eases in to painful admissions and missed opportunities, to demands because _no, you cannot die, do not leave me now_.

And Robin doesn’t release him, even when the Batman does come for them, carrying both out of the wreckage just as the GCPD manage to break through the debris to look for any survivors—he can only pray and _hold on_.

 **

_Robin Pile FTW_

And the three of them can only _stare_.

The soft beeping of the heart monitor echoes in the Cave, bats screeching and flapping of wings above—a soothing thing, familiar.

Hood is the first. Eyes never leaving the unconscious body on the gurney, he shoves off a glove and reaches out with slightly shaky fingers, lets the pads skim over the raised white lines scrawling across Red’s bare back like a _message_. A breath shudders out of the second Robin when his palm lights down, presses against a cluster of freckles on Red’s shoulder blade.

N is next. He rips off the domino, rubs his eyes just—just _because_ while his brain works with some other way to _explain_ everything ( _Batman_ ), but the tights are still so _bright_ it hurts to even look at, the word _crimson_ makes sense now and he’s touching the mass of fine lines along the small of Red’s back, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek.

Robin, only newly eighteen, is the last. With his gauntleted forearm over his mouth, looking at the battered, beaten bird laying out under them, he can swallow back the bile rising up his throat, can breathe slowly through his nose. And he leans down slowly, pressing his palm and forehead to Red’s other shoulder blade, whispering Arabic into that broken skin, eyes _hot_ because _what has he done?_

_What have they **all** done?_

None of them need to say it, not buried deep in recriminations with the abrupt revelation, with the shocking array of color at _this_ juncture of their lives, and with the only Robin still running away from Gotham like his _life_ depended on it.

Now they all have a frame of reference as to _why_.

Dick Grayson believed his own soulmate was insane with grief, let him leave the family without bothering to make sure he had a safety net.

Jason Todd allowed the Pit’s influence to rule him, ride him hard enough to almost kill his own soulmate— _more than once_.

Damian Wayne drove his own soulmate away, was filled with disdain, petty jealousy, and _hatred_ at the mere mention of his own other half’s name.

O’s voice cracks once before the Cave’s superior comm system picks up, “so? Did you get to him in time?”

B, typing away at the big computer, manages a raised brow because, well, _Batman_ and shit.

“He’s…down for the count. He’ll live.” Is the short, sweet answer while B is hacking into the old Batwing (and _dammit Tim_ , _your backdoors are a pain in the ass_ ) for the details on how Red Robin came to be in this state.

“…Boss. Please tell me you took him to his Perch. I gave you his address _for a reason_ —“

“I’ve got better medical equipment here,” he counters, “I’ll explain it to him when he wakes up. Besides, I think it’s time we had a _talk_.”

O groans over the line, “please promise you aren’t going to _start_ with that.”

“Like I don’t know my own kids?”

“It’s…been a while for Tim, Bruce,” and _yes_ , shit has apparently gotten _real_ if O is using the real names. “Just keep that in mind, okay?”

“I have every intention of doing so. Thanks again for the heads up.”

“Keep me posted.”

“Understood. Cave out.”

Before B turns around, the Robins have gathered themselves enough to look not _so_ guilty (but definitely _are_ because, you know, _World’s Greatest Detective_ , but he understands since they all had a hand in where Red has come to be). Hood and Robin are spreading a warm blanket over Red, maneuvering around IVs and medical equipment, to eliminate the fine spread of gooseflesh over his back and shoulders. N makes sure none of the lines come loose (and if he shifts his bare hand through Tim’s hair, watching the different shades of black flow through his fingers—)

And B finally stands, worry obvious on his de-cowled face as he approaches his sons, trying to remember the last time all of them had been together, all of them _home_. (Tim the last few years, Damian when he died, Jason before that, and Dick when he had to become Nightwing instead of Robin.)

“All right,” he gently butts into the silence, “I’m taking him upstairs. You three need to get cleaned up, leave the suits down here for the night, and try to get some sleep. We’re going to need it if we’re keeping up with Red Robin once he comes to.”

Robin is the first to turn, “we will take him upstairs, Father.”

“I’ll get first shift,” Hood grunts out, jaw tight.

“I don’t think we’ll need shifts tonight,” N interjects, arms crossed, gripping his own biceps hard enough to leave marks.

“Agreed,” Robin bites out, ramrod straight with a vein in his temple throbbing.

B blinks as his three sons and slowly, his eyes go down to Red’s still, silent form (and _yes_ , it had been too long, he’d waited too damn _long_ this time—with Jason he could just _tell_ when it was time to break the wall between them, to hold his second Robin in a hard hug, tell him all the _truths_ ), and even with the blankets over him, B can see each new injury, knows the large majority were treated by Red Robin himself.

Another Robin he’d abandoned.

But B supervises as Nightwing and Robin hold the IV bags aloft, still attached, while Hood eases Red over and up in his arms with a kind of gentleness he’s never been _known_ for. All three of them looking at Red Robin’s slack face slumped against Hood’s shoulder while they carefully make their way up the steps to the Manor proper, completely ignoring Alfred’s _no suits outside the Cave_ rule.

**

And in the morning—

He comes to staring _up_ —

At the tape still on the ceiling.

He feels like absolute _ass_ , immediately recognizing the aches and pains of a little thing called _septic shock_.

It’s nice to wake up.

Sometimes.

When it’s in the Manor ( _not his **place** anymore)_ , the last thought is stricken from the record in place of _oh shit why?_

Slowly, Tim turns his head, takes in the sprawl of Robins around the bed in his old room in Wayne Manor (and _why_ , _why is it still here? Why isn’t it a guest room or some shit?_ ); his thought processes settle, gather _weight_ , when he has an abrupt moment of dread, the instinct to _run_.

He’s silent and stealthy even with the residual _owfuck_ , pulling his calf out from under Dami’s hand, easing his hip away from Jason Todd’s heavy arm, and maneuvering his head away to pull back from Dick’s fingers in his hair. He ends up with his back against the wall, as far away on the bed from them as he can realistically _get_.

Luckily, just above his head is the main window, a whole lot of _winning_ right there.

All he needs to do is—

The hand on his ankle stops him mid-reach, and like one of those stupid horror movies, he turns enough to look over his shoulder with wide eyes. All three of them are awake and staring at him.

Jason Todd’s hand on his ankle tightens, and Tim _waits for it_. The feel of bone snapping under the strength in those hands.

When it doesn’t happen, suspicion is the next logical step.

“Don’t even think about it, Timmy.” Is Jason’s low, growling command.

And if his brows furrow, it’s because he’s never heard Jason say _his real name_. Pretender, Replacement, Stand-In, sure. Those were all what he’d become accustomed to hearing.

Like Jason comes to the same conclusion in the same moment, his brows also furrow, but he pulls slightly to make a point.

“I appreciate the pick-up,” he deadpans (because _not really_ ), filling in the space and those _expressions_ , “and I’m good to be out of your hair. Give me a bike and I’ll be on my merry way—“

But Dami snarls, cutting him off abruptly, “when did you last _eat_ , Drake?”

And just _what now?_

His mouth works a few seconds, no sound coming out.

“Before we found you,” and Dick looks like he’s vibrating in his seat, a whole lot of _pissed off former Batman_ right there, “when was the last time you _slept_?”

Tim’s mouth closes with a sharp _clack_ of teeth, his eyes narrow in calculation at exactly what _the fuck_ is going on.

“How much mother _fucking_ damage what got done ta ya ta make ya hit septic _shock_ , asshole?” Is Jason Todd, lip curled in an angry sneer, setting off all the warning alarms.

Slowly, he sits up straighter, mouth a narrow line of _get **fucked**_ , but whatever inner power animates the bond, creates the connections between people, the pulls and tugs he’s ignored _for so fucking long_ , sparks somewhere in his grey matter.

“ _Shit_ ,” falls out of his mouth because _now they all know_.

For the first time, they were all seeing his eyes in color—like he’d seen theirs for _years_ , and a hard hit of utter fucking _panic_.

“Dunno if that covers it, Timmers,” Jason smirks at him, his eyes lighter, the same blue from the paintings downstairs. The one’s Tim Drake has _always_ seen while the rest of the landscape remained cold, hard, uncompromising shades of monochrome. With each of them, he’d gained pieces of the true _vision_ —full color, the shades of _joy_.

None of them had gained shit after meeting him, fighting next to or with him, bleeding, being stitched back together, fighting the _good_ fight whenever he happened to be in Gotham and the full _call_ went out—any and all Bats on full alert for the inevitable _oh shit_. You know, standard _vigilante wanted_ signs.

It hadn’t taken him long to figure out distance, however, made everyone less _crazy_.

He closes his eyes and sighs, shoulders slumping because _dammit_ , he’s hurt and tired. He’s been running through a long slew of bad nights and worse _impending doom_. He’s kept himself going without them, without anyone but the Titans at his back, and _now_ —

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” is his quiet response, eyes lighting on one after the other. “Soulmates are a stupid construct. Most people function fine without ever finding one.”

And all three of them just _stare_ , mouth agape.

“How can you even _say_ that—!”

“For _fuck’s sake,_ Tim—”

“Now would be the perfect time to _break someone’s face_ , Drake—”

“All of you wanted me _gone_ ,” he snarls, interrupting whatever _lip service_ this shit is. “I fucking _got it_. Some supposed spiritual connection, a _myth_ , isn’t going to change anything.”

Regardless of _owfuck_ , he’s off the bed, away, eyes moving to the sharp silver of his cell phone on the bureau; he palms it without thought, bare feet silent on the plush carpeting, and his brain must still be somewhat broken because _soothing_ and _familiar_ are things it evokes.

Someone tries to grip his bicep, all of them talking at once, trying to say something _life changing_ or some shit, but Tim shakes the hand off, moves out of the room and down the hall. He clenches his jaw, keeping his gaze straight ahead, but _fuck, it all hurts over again_.

He’s thumbing the phone, taps a text out one-handed, not even looking while he takes the steps down to the ground level.

His shoulders immediately tense when Dick steps right beside him, pacing him, “say you’re right,” the eldest jumps right in, not giving Tim the time for a good-intentioned _fuck off_. “Say it is just a _myth_ , why not prove it? Give us a _chance_ here, Tim. We all just found out—”

“You belong with Babs,” he interrupts shortly, absurdly glad Alfred isn’t about because _then_ —

“Babs and I could never make it _work_ ,” Dick replies, exasperated, “you _know_ that.”

“Nope.”

And instead of going to the kitchen for at least _one_ cup of coffee, he goes right through the first floor into the sitting room for the old Grandfather clock.

“Tim, lookit,” and from over his left shoulder, Jason Todd’s eyes cut over the third Robin from the back of his neck and down, watching for the inevitable ticks from injuries, “we back offa ya, yeah? Give ya some _time_ and shit ‘cause, dammit, looks like ya need ta sit the fuck down fa a minute and _chill_. Ain’t gotta getcha ass ona bike and ride off right now, you feel me, Baby Bird?”

And his whole body gets cold abruptly, the connection strung _tight_ , making it seem like the air is cut off, but when he turns just enough to see Jason Todd over his shoulder, all he can say is, “what the fuck did you call me?”

Beside Todd, over Tim’s other shoulder, Damian Wayne blinks down, wondering at the reaction, sees the hand twitch toward the scar on his thigh.

“Timothy,” he picks up, keeping his voice low and calm, “the point is valid. If it is your preference, we shall leave you alone to rest and heal while you are here in the Manor. Father and Pennyworth—”

“I’m sticking with _no_ , but the offer is appreciated,” is what he can manage because he isn’t _this_ , not with any of them. 

Damian is the first to straighten, narrow his eyes dangerously. Jason catches the kid’s _this shit ain’t happening_ look and grins a little to himself ‘cause demon obviously knows how the story is going to go down—and that ain’t without a _fight_. Dick, body wound _tight_ because he always should have _known_. 

And he grips Tim’s bicep before his can disappear down the steps and into the darkness; he pulls Tim into his chest, shoves his hand into Tim’s hair and scratches lightly at his scalp. Jay steps up to the side, keeping himself in Tim’s line of sight and lays a warm, broad palm right along the back of his neck, fingers working the knots of tension. Dami takes part in the initiative, just steps into Tim’s back, taller than his soulmate, but refuses to hesitated palming Tim’s hips with both hands.

And the three engulf him in their warmth, the color swirling around them in vibrant brightness, the shades of greys and shadows buried in tight niches and corners; the connections flare, making Tim _choke_  with it again for the hundredth time, and the three around him move their hands in easy strokes, refuse to let him hide away now that they _know_.

And his knees might get a little weak even though he attempts to lock them because, well, things like _shock_  and _recovery_  are still forefront in his brain pan. But some of the fight goes out of him, and _years_  of weariness just seem to take some crazy kind of _root_  with all three of them gripping him, standing in his _space_  without wanting to kill or maim or what the hell else.

Rather, the three of them stay right by him, keep him on his feet when he would have otherwise been on the ground, and it’s something he can’t do, to wrench himself away from _this_.

Dick, Jason, and Damian are thankful for this moment, of being allowed a foot into Tim’s _life_  again, and they all grip with slight desperations, hands tight so they can just _hold on_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t decide on a pairing, so kind of not sorry, right? ;)


	3. Jay/Tim Praise Kink: NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes... Baby Bird's gotta have some release...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may or may not be the praise kink you’re looking for. NSFW. Possible dom/sub undertones. Also: warning for Jason Todd’s mouth. There’s a lot of it. He’s a lit nerd, so he can talk the talk.  
> (I regret nothing)

And he gets how it’s just gotta _be_ sometimes, yeah?

“Always gonna be my Robin. _Mine_.”

It took a while, maybe too long, for him to see the signs, but once he _did_ , you can fucking _bet_ he stepped up to take care of his bird.

“All mine, Timmy…”

And his fingers drift on the bone of a bare shoulder, sliding over pale skin, scars and freckles while his boots make soft noises on the carpet. “I worked _hard_ , comin’ back from the abyss, Baby Bird. Had ta _atone_ for alla those sins.” Fingertips sliding up the tense tendon, under the tense jaw.

“An’ you? Yer just what I _earned_ , my sweet _reward_.”

He started slow in the beginning, making sure his bird didn’t pick up on it at first (wouldn’t _fight it_ , what he ultimately _craved_ ).

The signs, however, overworking, not eating, not sleeping, nightmares, and pushing until he literally _dropped_ —all completely telling on how hard the last few years have been, the _effects_ it left (and you can fucking _bet_ he and Dickie had a little heart-to-mother- _fucking_ - _fist_ about the _shit_ way Big Wing took the cape; oh yeah, Dick knew he was a real _cocksucker_ once Jay just dropped a lil’ _knowledge_ on ‘im).

More than just marks on _skin_.

Alla it just burned Baby Bird down to the _soul_.

It hadn’t taken Jason Todd long to _get it_. What he’d be getting himself into if ( _when_ ) he pushed for _more_. More than just working the night, the crazies, the baddies, the gangs; more than a place to crash, cereal to mooch, endless hot water, injuries tended by efficient hands; more than just movies and Chinese food, more than just a fuck when the adrenaline of the night took _over_.

More than casual.

When fear took over at the sound of pain and oncoming death, when his heart started matching that rhythm after the orgasm, when it was _Timmy_ so fucking beautiful in the early dawn.

Jason was on _that_ train before he realized it.

In the next few months, bigger shirts, longer jeans and sweats, more hardware, a toothbrush and shave kit, just began migrating into the Perch, into Titan’s Tower, into Outlaw HQ, into safe houses (eventually into his room at the Manor when Jay finally convinced him to _come back, just for the night, baby_ ). Coming to happened with Tim under his arm or sprawled on top of him more often than not.

Almost six months later, and the suspicions came to fruition—of just how well his Timmy could _hide_. Could bury his own needs _deep_ , could be what he thought was _required_ , could do what _had_ to be done.

He lost himself in the _masks_ , worked on overload, wound himself up tight enough to _snap_.

In these extremes, Jay has come to find out just how he needs _work it_ when Baby Bird is too close to the edge, when he needs _release_.

Which explains why Red Robin is kneeling on the floor of Jason’s most legit safe house, the black rope a contrast to his pale skin, setting off his too-long dark hair pulled at the back of his head to bare his neck. And the smaller man shudders silently when Jason’s fingers ghost over.

Jason eyes the coils around Tim’s upper body, starting right under his pert nipples, looping down to right above his navel, a special combination knot to keep his wrists pinned to the small of his back. The rope is tight down to secure his ankles, binding him while still keeping him upright.

_Bee-yoo-ti-ful_

“Karma did me a solid, baby,” Jay continues softly, fingers moving on the nape of Tim’s neck, “I needed a good boy. Smart n’ sassy, brave and a real _pain_ in my left nut. Somethin’ ta keep me on the straight n’ narrow, yeah?” He thumbs Tim’s jaw again, the tendon still _tight_ , meaning he’s biting down on the red, rubber ball between his teeth, keeping him from spewing some self-depreciating _bullshit_ what ain’t fucking _true_. It keeps Timmy from deflecting, makes him _listen up_.

And Jay finally stands in front of his bird, looking down at the blackout blindfold covering those expressive eyes, pink lips drawn around the gag. His cheeks are getting pink, a gentle color. Once he’s red down to his chest above the rope, he’ll be ready.

So Jay kneels slowly, runs his wandering hands down Tim’s chest so the bird can track him, not jarring him out of the headspace. No need for fast or abrupt, _naw,_ they got _time_.

“That’s what you _are_ , Timmy,” hands follow the line of corded muscle in those thighs, lets Jay lean in to talk against Tim’s ear, let him breathe against all that bare _skin_. “My good boy.”

There might have been a noise against his chest, but he mighta just imagined it.

“My boy what gives everything he’s _got_ , works himself ta the _bone_. Bleedin’ f’ the cause.” And he can’t help but press his mouth right under his bird’s jaw, sucking on the skin there. “Such a good _boy_. A good _Robin_.”

It triggers something in Timmy, and the twitching movement in hands, thighs, arms, _fighting_ against it, making a quiet, disgruntled noise behind the gag (probably trying to call _bullshit_ ).

But Jay is ready for it from the start, using knots and clasps not even B could escape. It had taken in-depth research into Tim’s usual escape methods, finding the right material, the right combination, ‘cause it’s crucial Timmy can’t _run_. Jay can’t let him keep running from something he needs so badly. Baby Bird has to be broken of the old conditioning, has to have his walls stripped down, can’t be allowed to deflect, can’t be allowed to _hide_.

And Jay? Jay is a man that know _all_ about _needs_.

“Everything you’ve sacrificed, baby, every time ya take a hit, get beat the fuck _down_ , ya just keep gettin’ back up n’ moving.” His finger sink in to those tense muscles, kneading into knots, completely ignoring Tim’s obvious erection. It isn’t about that yet. Naw, that’s Baby Bird’s _reward_.

Working out those tense muscles out, thumbs moving in a soothing rhythm, fingers digging into make those knots ease up some, start making Baby Bird _pliant_.

“Breaks my fuckin’ _heart_ sometimes,” he breathes over Tim’s cheek, “watchin’ y’ take on the sins of the world, trying ta keep it spinnin’, trying ta beat ‘em ta the punch, puttin’ it all on yer fucking _back_ ta carry.” His hands slide up slightly when the muscles finally ease. Jay leans his forehead against the crown of Tim’s head, eyes sliding to the pink color highlighting the lines of throat and collar bone, making way down to his chest, and it’s So. Fucking. _Pretty_ , that color on his Baby Bird. Knowing he’s doing what Timmy _needs_.

Voice huskier, he’s getting the muscles under his hands to relax faster, easier, signs his bird is finally starting to give _in._ “Y’ get torn up n’ ripped apart, bleedin’ out. Getch yaself inta the worst scrapes n’ don’t call nobody. _Fuck_ , y’ don’t even _know_ what it does t’me.”

This time, he knows the noise isn’t in his imagination, and presses his mouth in a series of easy kisses along the jaw line, comes back to mouth and suck at the lobe of the ear he’s talking into.  

“How much it makes me wanna tie ya down ta the bed, keep ya too _fucked out_ ta move. Make ya _scream_ for me, make ya come apart until yer blissed out enough ta actually _sleep_ an’ eat. Make my mark on ya all over, fill ya right _full_ an’ keep ya that way.”

And there it is, Timmy head tipping back just enough, his jaw relaxing with the gag in, all of it making Jay smile against skin.

“It’d be my _right_ , baby. Just to fucking _try_ and keep ya safe when this _shit_ of a world throws more atcha, bleeds more humanity outta ya, takes it’s fucking pound of _flesh_.”

His hands skimming up again, right at the base of his spine, thumbs under his bound hands so Jay can work the tension away. He can’t help himself, has gotta just lean down a little and mouth at the tender spot, earn some _noises_ from his bird, muffled behind the gag.

“An’ like I dunno ya? Like you think I can’t _see_ it. Like I ain’t _been there_?”  Jay splays one hand wide up Tim’s back, over the back of his exposed neck, and shoves his fingers into dark hair, dislodging the little tail. When his fingers tighten and _grip_ , the color splashing across Tim’s face, neck, and chest deepens, so nice n’ red, a reaction Baby Bird can’t _hide_. The low whine follows when Jay _pulls_ him back, makes the tendons stand out so he can _bite_ , make his _point_.

‘Cause even after how far they’ve _come_ , even with all the other shit in Baby Bird’s brain rolling around, there’s still the deeply rooted ones that only a very _few_ could pick up and even fewer could trigger.

This one only works if it comes directly from _him_. One dripping with guilt and regret, one he would do _anything_ to go back and be able to _change_. But Jay already knows his only chance to make it right, to _try_ and un-fuck what he’s done is here in this scene. And even here, where he can give his bird all those words, all those _sentiments_ he holds deep in his chest, this is still a fifty-fifty for them.

“I was _wrong_ , Timmy. Called ya _Pretender_ and _Replacement_ ‘cause I couldn’t _see it_ at the time. Couldn’t see _you_. Just a cape, just another _R_ on the shoulder.  I was a bad man, baby. Such a nasty, angry mother _fucker_. Cruel ta ya when y’ were just a kid, gettin’ inta ya head, tryin’ ta pull all the fears outta ya, laying down alla th’ fucking baggage at yer feet what wasn’t _yers_ ta carry any-goddamn-way.”

And Timmy’s trembling minutely in his hold, so Jay compensates, sliding his free arm right around the small of Tim’s back, pulls him in _tight_ , pressing them together from chest to knee, holds Tim still with his whole _body_.

“Ya been tryin’ ta make-up for it ever since. Workin’ harder, takin’ on _more_ , killin’ yaself one step at a fucking time. An’ I did that ta ya, my good boy, my pretty bird. Made too many scars on ya, baby, an’ the worst ones ain’t on yer skin, y’ feel me?”

His arm eases off, and it’s telling how _far_ into it Timmy’s gone when he doesn’t move once the hold is gone. When his body gives _in_ , his brain finally getting with the program, slipping into just the _right_ state, just where Jason _wants him_.  Fingers trail up, up, _up_ , the pads of his fingertips easing over the nearly imperceptible white line cutting the smooth skin of throat—a Joker’s smile Jason Todd carved into him what seems like a lifetime ago.

His mouth follows, pressing gentle, easy kisses to that old scar, the skin beneath his mouth _hot_ , trembling with soft whimpers. He can feel the noises against his tongue, against his apology pressing the length of the scar. And when Timmy starts panting a little through his nose, chest rising and falling more rapidly, Jay can pull back, can talk against the rubber ball, can use the tight hold just how his bird secretly _likes_ , turning him, controlling him, making him _take_.

“Can’t go back, baby,” and it’s a soft admission, coming from deeper than he usually goes during the scene, “even if’n I _could_ , it’d means we’d never get _here_. Where we’s at _now_ , so all’s I can do ta make it right, all’s I can do _now_ is make ya _see_ it, give y’ _alla_ the evidence ya need, so’s ya _know_ I ain’t fucking around. Naw, Timmy, _Baby Bird_ , my _good_ boy, I’ve worked too _hard_ ta deserve ya, broke m’ finger an’ ribs, split m’self right right _open._ Bled out alla that anger, alla the Pit water what was in m’ fucking _veins_. _God_ , baby. I won’t _stop_ , not ‘til ya can believe it, not ‘til I stamped m’ name down t’ yer _bones_. Fuck, it ain’t been easy,” and his voice goes more hoarse than he means, Jay’s eyes suspiciously hot where he’s talking against the side of Tim’s stretched mouth, listening to those noises fade away with this part of the monologue. “Jus’… jus’ thought it mighta been _time_ ta throw it in, lay back the fuck down in my grave. Do what shoulda oughta always _been_ …but I…baby, _baby_ , ya walked right inta that safe house in th’ Narrows and—and took _care_ a’ me. I fucking _bled_ ya, Timmy, beat ya down wit’out a hitch, and there y’ were, wouldn’t _stop_ tryin’ ta _save me_.”

Now he feels it, the tremors in the thighs, and lets out a long, slow breath.

“That’s when I _got it_. When I _understood_. That’s when I _knew_ I had ta change, baby. If…If I was ever gonna earn ya, be _worthy_ of ya, then I had ta make alla that bad shit _mean_ something f’ Chrissake _._ ”

Finally, Tim’s the right healthy red down his heaving chest, just what Jason Todd’s been _waiting_ for.

Oh, baby. His bird is so hard and leaking, panting and whining behind the gag, but every muscle in his body is relaxed for the first time in _months_ , leaning back on his heels and just _taking_. The fight is gone and the words are getting through, sinking _in_. And it’s a whole different kind of _mask_ , the blindfold, something twofold. In the scene, he can give a little something up, something _more_ than he’d usually let slip; in the same fashion, Timmy ain’t got no other choice but to let _go_.

Jay slides around slowly, easy, to give Tim the front of his body to brace against; his suit is still on, the vestiges of the Red Hood, but without the armor he can feel the planes of Tim’s back, run his fingers through the fine sheen of sweat across the bare shoulders.  Slowly, so _slowly_ , one hand splays wide, runs the length of Tim’s chest and abdomen, pause to run over other scars, the _proof_ of his boy’s selflessness, give ‘em their _due_.

He mouths at Tim’s throat, gives the edge of teeth his bird _likes_ and strokes a thumb over the catch of the gag against Tim’s cheek, talks against the other side of his face while his other hand travels lower, gives his good boy a _reward._ He palms Timmy’s hard cock with a moan, sucks into his neck, makes his baby feel _good_.

“…I’d fucking come back again, claw outta my fucking _grave_ , Timmy, long as we can have this. Just _us_ , baby.”

Tim slumps back against him, face wet under the blindfold, and writhes against Jay’s hands, giving himself over, _letting go_. And _fuck_ , he’s so beautiful like this, unrestrained, plaint, trusting; his Baby Bird _knows_ he’s going to be taken care of. He grips, speeds up, twists his wrist just like Timmy likes, gives and takes at the same time.

“ _That_ brings us ta _now_ , where I’m gonna make ya _come_ f’ being my good boy, just ‘cause I _like_ how pretty y’ are when ya can’t _hold back_ ,” and the catch on the gag is released just as Tim whines again, the noise echoing along the walls. Jay tosses the thing without interrupting the rhythm, starts to lose himself in those hoarse, pleasured pants. “An’ then, Timmy… I’ma take ya ta _bed_. Lay ya _out_ bare and hard f’ me, just how _I like it_.  some’a the _bad_ things y’ like so, _so_ much. We’re gonna take _all_ the time we _need_.”

And _fuck_ , his baby is _close_ , just so _ready_ and writhing, turning his face into Jay’s neck, giving himself _over_.

“Gonna make damn _sure_ ya _stay_ in that bed until I wanna letcha go. Maybe a few days, maybe a few weeks what when I might be _convinced_.” He ducks his face, noses against Tim’s cheek and into the blindfold.

His bird _knows_ , raises his face enough for Jay to slide their mouths together, to nibble and nudge his way in while Timmy comes apart in his hands. Right before he’s thrown over the precipice of a _spectacular_ orgasm, Tim has enough in him to draw back, overwhelmed and vulnerable, laid as bare as he possibly _can_ be, and rasps out the most important words of the night:

“Jason… _Jay_...I fucking _love you_.”

The immediate pleasure bursting between them hits hard enough to take his senses, make everything fuzzy until he’s—

_Out_

But the vestiges of his consciousness register

(“I love you too, baby. _Fuck, I love you too._ ”)


	4. The night the Flying Graysons Died Ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon: I have a prompt if you ever feel up for it: Dick and Tim the night Dick's parents died. In most of the stories I have read, Dick does not remember Tim from that night; who could blame him, his just witnessed his parents death. However, can you possibly write Tim doing something special that night that makes Dick remember, if not as a child, but years in the future? Thank you for your writing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually one of my faves, so I hope you enjoy. Ah, a little sad because of mentions of the Graysons' terrible passing. Get your feels ready.

And he has no idea what the fuck he’s even doing here.

Red glances over at the slightly less bloody vigilante laid out on the sofa.

Oh. _Owfucks_ and such. Right.

Nightwing is out cold for the moment, his suit shoved down to his hips and the gnarly gash along his side stitched up. The bullet had come perilously close to squishy bits better left inside the body cavity; luckily, Red Robin has had enough practice on himself to take care of it before they reached dangerous proportions.

So, he’s not going to feel guilty as _fuck_ in the morning for leaving N to lay bleeding out on the roof of the Wallstone apartments (see? Team player sometimes, not that it really matters at this juncture).

And even though he’d rather be up against Ra’s, the Joker, H.I.V.E, and maybe Firefly (for something _spicy_ thrown in) rather than be in N’s apartment, the place was a) closer than a safe house and b) _pathetically_ easy to break into (you’re a vigilante, N, get _with it_ ). All of it just add up to the fastest snatch n’ stitch in the history of crime fighting.

Literally. He should be calling _Guinness_ right about now.

But the feeling shakes him after the danger has passed, and Red takes a moment, turns his back because it’s been almost two years since he’s been here, and, well, some things never _change_.

The First-Aid kits are always perilously low on supplies; tiny post-it notes are on _everything_ (seriously, N, get a PDA—but if he’d really been paying _fucking attention_ at the time, he would realized it’s _Hood’s_ handwriting on _all_ of them); clothes are practically making up the bedroom floor, noticed while Red searched for antiseptic; the movie collection overtakes the small television stand, overflowing to the floor in neat stacks; the living room furniture is just the right kind of worn, the kind to let your bones sink into; the walls are full of _pictures_ and articles.

The second shock of the night since most of N’s personal things went up in flames when the ‘Haven blew the hell up. Apparently B (as already _obvious_ ) pulled out the _World’s Greatest Detective_ card and found replacements/reproductions for a vast majority of N’s personals. You know, good Dad things.

The old Titans in civvies hanging out in Central Park. N at nine or ten hanging off Bruce’s shoulders at a museum, pointing to something that caught his attention. Wally flipping a _radical dude_ with the Grand Canyon as the backdrop. N with Mr. Haley and the crowd before the older guy passed away. Donna sitting at the table he recognizes from the old Titan’s Tower, laying there asleep with ash on her face from one fight or another. Dick in his _Officer Grayson_ daywear. Kory holding a bowling ball with both hands and a puzzled expression head tilted to the side while Gar laughs in the background. N holding Cass piggyback, coming down the stairs of the Manor. A picture of his graduating class from the Academy. The stupid one of the two of them, the third Robin at sixteen, and the elder grinning like an ass while giving him rabbit ears.

The frames go further down the hall, lining down into the dim, a memorial to good times. Ones outside the vigilante life.

He realizes he should have taken N to a safe house instead, so he wouldn’t have to be _here_ and deal with the ghosts of their past. It should be too old to hurt anymore, the break between him and N ( _Dick_ )—fuck, it’s been _how long_ again?

Red shakes his head to himself, thumbs N’s phone with the least bloody glove, and holds it to his shoulder with a cheek while he cleans up at the kitchen sink, leaving N on the couch to sleep the injuries off.

“Are you all right? Your comm went down,” is O’s first hurried sentence.

Hands under the hot running water, Red just breathes out a quiet sigh. _Going to regret this_. “He’s passed out on his couch. The injuries have been treated. I thought someone should know.” Usually O is not the lesser of the two evils. Tonight just _happens_ to be one of those strange occurances.

A heartbeat of time.

“Oh my God, _Tim?_ ”

Yup, color _him_ surprised too.

“Babs. You can send the Bats his way, but he’s not going to bleed out. Probably. Bye—“

“ _Don’t you **dare** hang up the phone!”_

Red shuts the water off, dries his hands off on a t-shirt laying across the counter. “Nothing more to say. I broke out the boo-boo express. He’s in his own apartment carefully _not_ dying. That’s about the extent of things.”

“You’ve been in and out of Gotham for the better part of a year without even _telling_ anyone.” She admonishes sharply, “we’ve all been worried about you. Dammit, Tim, answer a _voicemail_ once and a while.”

His eyes narrow automatically, lacking the cowl, his eyes glitter in the overhead lights, “I send intel when it’s needed and I answer the call like a _good soldier_.” Because _really_ Babs. Just _really_. Everyone else knows what the deal is, _why not you, too?_

“Tim—look, I know things were _not okay_ for a while—“

Welp, _there’s_ an understatement.

“—between all of you, and it’s _completely_ understandable, but you have to _know_ —“

“Thanks for that,” he deadpans, “but I’m already well aware of my _place_ in the Bat-schema. I do the job and I stay the _fuck_ out of their way unless some catastrophe hits that makes me _relevant_. It’s _fine_. I _get it_.”

Sharp intake of air and frantic typing.

Nope. Sorry Babs, already hacked the local cameras.

_My bad_.

“So, pass on the message. N’s not dead. Send someone to check on him.”

“Tim, _wait_ , okay, just _wait_ —“

“Bye Babs. See you at the next never-happening family reunion.”

He ends the call while she’s still talking, lays N’s phone on the table next to the couch, and moves like a ghost through the apartment, already on his way _out_.

The centerpiece for the hallway (and further down toward the best window for, you know, _peace out_ ) is a flicker in his peripheral; the black and white photo, the _same_ photo currently buried in a box of important things hidden in his Perch, is framed with a yellowed and worn poster for The Flying Graysons. It’s a young Dick Grayson with a tiny Tim Drake on his lap, smiling at the camera. Red flinches, stepping back automatically.

The frame has seen better days; John and Mary are smiling in the background, arms around one another in a comfortable, familiar hold. He’s looking up utterly mesmerized; the first moment he was taken in by the charisma that _is_ Dick Grayson, the aura of trust and safety and all around goodness that used to keep him (as _that_ Robin) orbiting around the older vigilante.

And…

And folded in the bottom corner, under the glass, is an old handkerchief, one with a delicate stitching in a visible corner. The same handkerchief that had been in the pocket of his shorts the night he watched John and Mary fall from the trapeze to their deaths.

_The panic under Haley’s Big Top sent adults everywhere into a panic; people are on their feet, mouths agape in horror. Others are running, in fear for their lives since, well,_ Gotham _and all._

_But all the young child, small enough to shove himself through the crowd of adults, wiggling around the masses, can think of is the boy that was nice to him, that would do the quadruple_ just for him _. The most amazing acrobat in the world who hugged him tight and laughed with loud, genuine mirth when the little boy claimed himself The Flying Graysons’ number one fan. Forever. They should have a fan_ club, _and he would join it_.

_The acrobat who’s Mommy and Daddy just fell all the way down without a net._

_And he_ knows _, ‘dying’ means_ not coming back. _He understand ‘gone forever.’_

_It makes him hurt because every boy_ needed _his Mommy and Daddy._

_When he finally gets through to the ground below, the smell of sawdust and animals, sweat and plastic and leather all combine, something that will be stored in his memory, associated with the sight of the acrobat kneeling by the bodies, the blood on his hands while he stares numbly in shock and horror._

_The young child’s eyes fill in sympathetic tears while he runs, his small chest aching and the circus people trying to get the crowd out safely through the exits—too busy to stop and check on the Graysons._

_He reaches the acrobat just as shock gives way enough for Dick Grayson to start crying, denying what his eyes are telling him, for him to stare in his Mother’s empty eyes, hoping for some kind of_ miracle _. Because he’s only a child too, and it’s so far away—this idea of losing_ everything _. His mind can’t wrap around it all just yet._

_The young child skitters to a stop, falling to his knees by the acrobat, choking; it’s an automatic gesture to throw his small arms around one of Dick’s, to look up into that face contorted in real_ pain _. Dick doesn’t realize he’s there, too far into himself, but there’s blood on his hands—his Mommy’s and…_

_The small child pulls out his hankie and quickly tries to wipe it away so the acrobat won’t have to **see** —_

_But the GCPD are finally on scene, surrounding the perimeter, starting toward them, and the dark shadow comes out of the sky, lands by them like a monster from under the bed._

_The small child gasps, his grip on Dick’s arm tightens as the shadow man in a scary mask kneels on Dick’s other side. His hand is dark against the boy’s trembling back._

_“I’m sorry,” the scary man says low and with real feeling, his growly voice thick, “Richard, I’m so, so sorry.”_

_The acrobat, chest stuttering, gasping for air around everything, lowers his head and finally **wails**. The shadow man that seems kind of okay just stays there, kneeling, rubbing circles on the acrobat’s back in an attempt at comfort, and the police are trying to get everyone out of the tent._

_An officer calls out, “here he is!” The young child jerks abruptly, drawing the acrobat and the shadow man’s attention._

_The officer (an Officer Gordon, he will learn much, much later) trades a look with the shadow man and nods once before looking down at the young child, “hey, kiddo. We need to get you to your Mom and Dad. They’re worried sick about you. And…and you shouldn’t be here, okay? This isn’t the place for you.” The officer already has him on his feet, pulling him away from Dick, Dick who’s still holding on to his hankie, watching the child be lead away with lost, hurt eyes, (“I’m sorry, Dick!” the child calls, tears making his voice funny, “I’m sorry!” because if he hadn’t asked for the quadruple…)_ — _but the acrobat turns back his own parents, lying in the congealing blood, and the young child weeps while he’s taken back to his own parents, wanting to just hug the acrobat again and make everything okay._

_But he’s smart enough to know better. Things won’t be okay for the acrobat, not ever again._

Red comes back to the here and now, his chest aching like it had that night, when he saw true death for the first time. The catalyst for finding out more about the “shadow man,” the base reason for starting to follow the Batman and Robin in the first place. Without watching Dick’s parents die that night, he never would have started on the path that would have eventually lead him to becoming Robin, to becoming Red Robin, a Titan.

And there is the damn hankie that reminds of him of _how_ all over again. Red closes his eyes against it, trying to distance himself from that old pain.

“You thought I’d forgotten?”

The softness of it still makes Red tighten, straighten, because he and Dick had their time—all of _that_ had been over for a minute or so. It’s been long enough that the picture, the poster, the handkerchief shouldn’t make him _feel_ like this (but it _does_ , doesn’t it? His childish awe of Dick Grayson would probably never fade, regardless of everything standing between them now).

The older vigilante ( _and he was hurting so much kneeling with his Mommy and Daddy, all the child wanted to do was hold him, make the pain stop, make it better_ —all the things that would help make him _Robin_ later on) had apparently made it to his feet, bandages and all. Red notes how heavily he’s leaning against the wall, a hand gingerly over his abdomen. He might still be wearing the domino, but the small smile is all Dick Grayson.

Red swallows and stays silent, assessing. He shouldn’t have paused to look, to _remember_ because they weren’t _this_ anymore. 

“That little kid,” Dick goes on softly, “needed a hug. I remember that much so clearly. You were so _somber_ for a little boy at the _circus_.”

Steps are firm, blood loss train easing up, N ( _Dick_ ) is going to be fine.

“What kid doesn’t have a face full of cotton candy and popcorn? Looking amazed and awed. In all the time I could remember, you were the only child I’d ever seen that didn’t look excited, not until you saw me and Mom and Dad.”

_My parents didn’t want to go, but I made them a deal if they took me to see you—I’d always be good while they were away; I’d never be a problem_ is what almost tumbles out of his mouth, but Red stays silent, muscles rigid because they aren’t _here_ like _this_ anymore. No need for the explication. Right?

Right…?

But the evidence is really right here on the wall—that something so important is displayed, a constant reminder of where they both began. Why would it be _there_ if—?

Red’s eyes go that handkerchief, looking for faded blood stains because it had been a while since he felt this connected to Dick, like they could stand together again, like they could train surf and eat roof tacos, like they could play sky tag and parody bad black and white movies, like they could be _Marsha_ and _Cindy_ , like Dick could be his stopping point, the reminder of what he _stood_ for.

Just as suddenly, N is right there beside him with that small smile, getting closer like the past is creeping up with each step. Like the path that started with the first tragedy brought there right here, like it was always _meant_ to.

“Like I could ever forget _you?_ My number one fan?”

And he feels naked without the cowl right at that moment, staring at the picture, one of the few from his childhood that shows him _smiling_ (and well, there really aren’t many from his childhood anyway, so not _that_ impressive really).

A hand comes up to grip the back of Red’s bare neck (and _all_ the history, all the steps they’ve taken _together_ , rise up from fore, _brothers, partners_ ), thumb making soothing circles right on the knob of bone.

“You gave me something other than all the pain to remember from that day,” is the barely whispered admission. “For years, I could _remember_ that little boy sitting on my lap, and then holding on to my arm. The little boy that wanted to help me.” And Dick ducks his head slightly so he catches Red’s eyes, _seeing_ him, “I kept the memory of _you_ , Tim.”

_He’d never said the words aloud until now, tonight. It would make sense for Dick to gloss over those moments due to the trauma._

And it’s a stupid thing, when Red’s mouth opens and— “I’m glad I was there.” –tumbles right the fuck out. Welp, only _slightly_ mortifying.

“Me too,” and Dick steps around, blocks the monument so they can face each other in this new reality.  “You don’t know _how much_.”

Red blinks up at the familiar face, his hands working by his sides, “then you knew, even when I asked you to go back to B, to become Robin for him again—?”

Dick nods gently, “from the second you handed me that file folder. I wanted to discourage you, keep you away from vigilantes and the dangers. When you helped me solve the case at Haley’s… I realized that maybe, just _maybe_ , we were always meant to be partners. Maybe we started on the same road because of that night.”

Red’s chest hitches, eyes widen up at Dick because _that_ —

“Dick—“ comes out on a breath.

“I see it again, Timmy, right now,” Dick interjects gently, “how much you need a _hug_. How long it’s been since I gave you one.” Arms are already lifting, surrounding the gob-smacked Red to pull him gingerly into an easy embrace, not the usual inescapable octopus hold, but the one just for him that threads Dick’s hand in his hair to scratch gently at his scalp in a familiar, stupidly soothing gesture.

And he’s taller now, hesitating to wind his shaky arms around Dick’s back instead of staying stiff and still, pulling away to melt into the night; he can see the poster over Dick’s shoulder while blinking against the heat in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Dick says gently against the side of his face, “I’m sorry I abandoned you when you needed me. I’m sorry I made choices that hurt you, that I didn’t do it _differently_. I’m sorry I let you _stay away_.”

Red gasps because _those words_ reverberate through his whole body; things he wanted, _needed_ two years ago when he left Gotham with a strange name and no safety net.

Instinctively, he tries pulling back, pulling _away_ because this has to be just lip service—

“You’ve always been so important to me,” Dick continues on, arms tightening even with the bandages around his upper body, “so fucking _important_. But I knew I couldn’t follow you, wherever you had to go. I had to let you grow up and figure things out on your own. I—it’s the hardest thing I think I’ve ever had to do.” _To let you **go**_ **.**

“I’m not—“ Red tries, ignoring the hoarseness of his own voice, trying to pull back all those old feelings, all the times he’d _missed_ not talking to Dick, at staying _away_ because he thought that’s what everyone _wanted_. He was just the replacement after all.

“—my responsibility, I know. So you’ve said,” Dick laughs, an unfunny one, strained and sad, right against Red’s throat. “No, Tim, you’re so much _more_ than that. You’re the little boy I’ve always wanted to keep impressing, no matter how old you get, or how capable you are.”

Red blinks and pulls back, steps _back_ (and _no_ , he’s not already missing Dick’s warmth, _dammit_ ) this time, looking at the memorial rather than Dick’s dark blue eyes surrounded by the domino. “You never said anything,” he fills in shortly, wondering if he can just say _thanks for the good times, later,_ and get the _hell_ to the window before his resolve breaks any further.

He sees Dick’s easy shrug in his peripheral.

“There was never a need to,” is the easy reply, a shift in stance to put himself back in Red’s direct sight, “not unless you wanted to talk—but, it was probably pretty traumatic for you at that age.”

And it’s ridiculous how _that_ makes Red smile, sadly but _real_ , the man under the mask. “I think losing your parents might put you ahead on the _trauma_ scale, Dick.”

“I came to peace with it. I never stopped mourning, but I try to remember all the little details, the good things,” Dick turns slightly, to see that poster all over again. “They would have wanted me to be happy, so that made everything _easier_ eventually. Becoming Robin helped, too,” and Dick’s head turns back, eyes warmer, “B and Jason, Alfred, Babs, the Titans, _you_. All of you made it easier.”

“Good. It’s nice to know _Vigilante Anonymous_ has more to offer than just punch and cookies. You know, reaching people, one ass-kicking at a time.”

Dick chokes on an abrupt laugh, grabbing at his injury while Red just lets himself smile a little, slides the cowl back up and almost over his features.

“Wise ass,” Dick manages, leaning against the hallway.

“That’s our real secret power. The art of terrible jokes and witty banter.”

“Gets ‘em every time, Timmy.”

And something between them, the long-standing horrible _tight_ feeling, seems to finally _ease_. Not completely, not with the volumes of things filling in alongside the night air of Gotham City. Red’s eyes are slightly narrow in calculation, weighing the events of tonight while Dick is contemplating another hug and the possibility of getting a whirlybird to the liver. Well, if Tim Drake is going to allow another hug, Dick thinks it would be worth the risk.

“Make me a promise,” Dick requests while holding on to a slightly stiff Tim (but hey _progress_ ).

“Absolutely not.” The younger vigilante returns, “but you can ask.”

Dick huffs a laugh, “come see me before you leave Gotham.”

And the real request, the real meaning behind it: _give me another chance, Tim._ _Let me at least_ try.

Looking over Dick’s shoulder at the damn picture, he can’t find a reason to say no.


	5. Jason Todd and the Pit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the Pit rises up outta his veins...and tries to take control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this and then saw this post: http://iphoenixrising.tumblr.com/post/151731584397/counting-bodies-like-a-sheep

And the feeling bubbles up through his stomach, into his chest, up and up and _up_ …

The laugh, that _laugh_ overlays his thoughts, pounding in time with the driving rhythm.

“Don’t fret precious, I’m here…”

And he throws his head back, forearms straining, fists clenching around not-there hilts.

“Counting bodies like sheep

To the Rhythm of the War Drums…”

He wants to _scream_ at the same time he wants to just _give the fuck **in**_ and let all that anger take him _over_. He wants to run from it, to _fight it_ , to beat it. At the same time, he wants to dig his hands in _deep_ , to let it drive him, become him, _be_ him. He wants to let the Robin go, he wants to let the _him_ he’s become _go_ and let the Pit’s madness and rage come like a red wave so he can kill again and again and again.

“Go back to sleep,

Go back to sleep.”

Blood on hot asphalt.

Viscera ripe and rank.

White of bone showing through gore.

Death in the darkness, the blade of the Reaper glinting in Gotham’s moonlight.

Gun powder and the sharpness of the retort.

The corrupt and the evil, those fuckers need to _pay_.

B can’t understand, can’t _do_ what needs to be _done._

He can when the Pit rides him like this.

And the horrible pressure hits his brain like a fog of drugs, taking him over—

He _screams_ in to the night, on his fucking _knees_.

“Counting bodies like sheep,

To the rhythm of the war drums.”

And they are _fucking sheep_ in need of a shepherd.

To fix it.

To punish.

To restore.

To _move_.

“I’ll be the one to protect you from your enemies and all your demons—“

Talking. Touch.

Dick.

Tim.

_Fight it._

His fists on Dick’s wrist, so tight his knuckles are white.

Dick doesn’t flinch. Can’t see his _eyes_ through the whiteouts.

Tim takes off the helmet.

“Isolate and save you from yourself.” His voice is hoarse, rusty, like he’s been screaming too long…

Warm and soft, Tim’s hand on the back of his neck, talking against his ear. His forehead pressed against the padded armor—

Dick’s nose against his throat, their arms…

And he _fights._ For them, he _can_ …


	6. Heavy in Your Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a sad drabble about Jason Todd coming periously close to the final curtain call. Inspired by Florence + Machine's song of the same name

_I was a heavy heart to carry_

He spits blood, vomits some bile and water while he’s at it.

_My beloved was weighed down_

The pain radiates hot and tight along his spine from the probable broken bones in his leg and abdomen, from bruised or torn viscera, from his body cavity finally giving  _way_.

And it’s fine. All of it,  _all of it_.

_My arms around his neck_

Because he should never have made it this far, not with the world fighting against him, not with his feet dragging every step of the mother _fucking_  way. Not with destiny herself sending the Angel of Death to collect the  _debt_.

_My fingers laced to crown_

He’s known it since he was a short little shit running the Narrows down, trying to keep food in his belly and make enough to pay rent so they didn’t get evicted. He’s always  _known_  he wouldn’t live to see eighteen. The fact he made it to fifteen is a miracle within itself.

But the trigger to it, the lynchpin, the  _why_  behind it all, is that he did this  _to himself_. When B first found him trying to lift those tires, he should have told the vigilante to fuck off, to take him in for another blight on his record. He should have  _never_  put in the cape and tunic. Should  _never_  have let it go that goddamned  _far_.

_I was a heavy heart to carry_

He’s been tainted since birth, his real mom giving him up because somewhere deep down, she  _knew_  what was growing in her womb was something rancid, something  _tainted_. Something that should have died before it ever breathed his first. He should never have  _lived_ , nonetheless carried a good name straight to hell with him.

_My feet dragged across the ground_

His arms are little more than useless with blood loss and strain, the .45 loosely in his palm with his finger in the guard, but he doubts he could even lift the damn thing if he needed to.

(It’s fine. This is the way it shoulda ought always  _been_. Only sorry’s I owe is to you, sweets. Just  _you_ )

The pier under his cheek is creaky and moist, rotting away because the fucking tree is  _dead_  and he feels a strange kinship, chalking it up to blood loss and  _owfuck_.

_And he took me to the river_

“I’m sorry,” he rasps out, throat sore and hoarse. If he had enough left in him to move, he’d try to hit the tracer he  _knows_  was put in the suit. If he wasn’t content to just  _be_ , he would feel worse about leaving him behind, might feel scared going back down the long tunnel into the black. The  _real_  black, the one he came to from still in his coffin.

But there’s not enough to keep  _fighting_. Fuck, he wishes he had just a little  _more_  to give, just enough to get to his feet, just enough to go back where things like warm and safe and love could wrap around him.

Thing he had when he was  _that_  Robin, things he didn’t think he’d ever have again.

_Where he slowly let me drown_

But s’allright. It’s going to be  _fine_  because he did his due. He stopped that psychotic nut job from killing everyone in the city. He did what  _Robin_  would have done, minding his P’s and Q’s, not killing the motherfucker and shoving his corpse off a roof.

For once, he did good.

(And what he wouldn’t give to hear that from B...now  _that_ , is funny, ain’t it, clown?)

Gray eating at his vision, taking away the sound of the water, making the familiar noises of Gotham muted in a soothing kind of way.

_My love has concrete feet_

Kory’s face flashes through, her smile small and sad for him (that time he woke her up with a nightmare from the Pit. She and Roy held onto him all night, keep him  _tight_  in their arms while he sobbed and babbled, half-mad with it). He knows he’s going when he hears  _“Jaybird”_  like a prayer, to things he tried to do  _right_.

And  _fuck_  he  _tried_. He tried so hard with them. Tried to do what had to be done, to be what they both needed.

_My love’s an iron ball_

But that’s just the way of it. No matter what, no matter that he tried to keep  _fighting_  for the right  _reasons_ , it always went sideways, left his path swathed in destruction, more blood coating his hands.

He’d never be clean, not with alla it staining his fucking  _soul_.

But as his vision is finally fading and his thoughts slowing to a syrupy mass, he thinks he feels hands on him, familiar hands, careful, gentle hands, hands that were everything he  _needed_.

_Wrapped around your ankles_

He almost sobs out loud with the ghost sensations because  _this is the only thing he regrets_. After all the fighting, all the misunderstanding, all the residual hurts, how far they’ve come, how hard they fought to be  _here_ , how much he fucking  _hates_  to see pain on that face…

But if there’s one thing he can’t fight, he can’t  _win_  against, it’s Fate. When all the cards are stacked against him, when he’s outta tricks to pull in hopes of a last-ditch salvation, when the contingencies all  _fail_ , then it’s time to admit he’s done the best he could with his second chance and settle up his final debts with Death.

“I’m sorry,” he might say again while his face is wet against the pier. “Never meant ta get this gone for you…”

_Over the waterfall_

And he finally gives in, the dark washing over him, his heart beating with nothing but  _pain_  because he can’t be as strong as he needs to be, as he has to be, as he should be, to be worthy of that stupid asshole. He couldn’t be what was really  _needed_ , not as Robin, not as the Red Hood, not as a partner.

His last thoughts trickle out into the dark while the city is blocked out and the pain subsides, fades to dull twinges in his numbing body--

Maybe, he did the right thing after all.

_I was a heavy heart to carry_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :D


	7. Heavy in Your Arms con't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You. Fucking. Asshole.”  
> Sounds about right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My soulmate, Titans_R_Us is totally to blame for finishing it off.

_I’m so heavy_

Whirl of colors. The spasm of his gut and throat, bile and cold sea water. Fist in his diaphragm, forcing the rancid waterfall _out_.

Pain racing up his spine and his fingers form claws even in the sodden gloves, ready to start tearing at the flimsy silk covering wood and plastic trapping him, ready to start _from the inside_ :

—Screaming until he’s spitting blood, torn something there (that’s why his voice is _fucked_ even now)

—Crying for Bruce: _save me, don’t leave me in the ground to rot_ (but you _fucked up_ , didn’t you? Why would he come save the Robin who _failed_? _Who would?_ )

_Heavy_

—It’s dark and I’m _scared_ (and now he’s forgotten how to fear the night, never fucking again)

—Where... _Why?_ (because you should have never went after her. If you’d have _stayed_ , the clown wouldn’t have taken your stupid ass the fuck apart. Shoulda put a gun in your mouth instead, not like you don’t always chicken the fuck _out_ )

—Broken, bleeding fingernails (but getting through all that earth, and the first breath of tainted Gotham air was like _salvation_ )

—Air...have to have _air_ (no, asshole. You should have just fucking _stayed dead_ )

_Heavy in your arms_

In and out. Things are flashes and snatches when he gets snippets. Movement kills it because his leg is muted but still a mess with inevitable _pain_ waiting on the outskirts with a whole lotta _lemme talk at ‘chu for a minute_.

The blood loss might have made him slightly more insane than the Pit. _Slightly_ because he’s seeing things in starks and spectrums. He’s the guy what always saw shit in shades of grays.

_I’m so heavy,_

Seeing things in _color_ , just like _him_ , his boy. Always had to be on the opposite ends of the scale because in some way they both _got_ it— that bitch, Justice? Blind as fucking _bat_ , yeah?

He snorts at it while the wind dries his hair and _fuck_ he’s getting hit in the face with the battering of a _cape_ , telling how far _gone_ he’s got to be at this juncture.

B wouldn’t come for him, that _shit_ is just plain stupid.

_Heavy_

But as stupid as it is, the kid in him buried in some dark corner, some un- _fucked_ inch of his _soul_ , the kid that coulda, woulda, shoulda been the _right_ Robin...the part he can’t carve out, no matter how _sharp_ the knife is, how strong the steel, how covered in gore it’s gets in his hand, that part still fucking _hopes_.

(Save me, Bruce.)

Stupid little punk. Didn’t cha learn any better? You already done proved you ain’t worth the effort.

_Heavy in your arms_ ,

Out.

Back with it to the low, dulcet tone of a wrought-iron fire escape. One of the sturdy ones built back in the twenties when they intended shit to _last_. He can place himself by that noise alone— it’s the block of apartments on 152nd, _his_ side of Gotham. He knows every building and bolt hole, all the old trolley stations (from back when it was _the talk of Gotham_ , before it became the Narrows and dilapidated into drugs and low-income housing) and closed entrances to the subways, he knows the niches.

He knows where sin lives. Just another mark in the book, baby. Ya know I got it in _spades_.

_And is it worth the wait?_

The safe house is one of his. He knows it by the way the creaking mattress shoves a spring into his ass cheek.

Death seems further off since his leg is set in a complicated splint and elevated. Bodysuit is gone and his ribs wrapped just this side of too much. Someone was pissy about picking him up off the pier.

When he gets an eyeful of the slumped bird beside his shoulder on the bed, he gives a rough huff because some _assholes_ have to show up like the motherfucking cavalry or some shit.

(Lemme go. When it’s time, Timmy, it’s **_time_** _._ )

He has enough in him to lift the hand just enough to fit at the back of Tim Drake’s neck, being smooth and easy with it. His fingers work up to scratch lightly at Tim’s scalp just like he’s seen his boy do a hundred times, knows it’s Red’s weakness.

_All This Killing Time?_

“You. Fucking. _Asshole_.”

Sounds about right.

“What do you think _he_ would do if he heard half the made _fucking_ ramblings I heard _last night_?”

Pacing, moving, doing because Timmy gets _that_ kind of pissed off. You know, _royally_. He’s still in the Red Robin body suit, thrumming with energy now that some of them are going to live like the rest of the shithead population. At present, he’s cutting up a banana with _feeling_. One he apparently ain’t shy about sharing.

“Fucking up your second chance? Just _giving up_ and _I’m sorry_.”

He winces for the banana.

_Are you strong enough to stand?_

“Timmy, c’mon, calm it down. Coming close...ain’t easy fer me. Gets my head all jacked-up with the…” and is he _really_ going to do this? He and Baby Bird are good now, can work together, can snark, can siddown and have a burger on the ledge of the Wallstone. He has his own code into the Perch, got a coffee mug and set of pajamas.

But he’s never—

Only with Kory and Roy. Only with his boy.

And only when it tries to cut itself _out_. When it’s poison in the back of his throat.

_Protecting both your heart and mine?_

But it’s got Timmy turned away from the counter, facing him in the dim dawn starting to eek through the blinds. And Baby Bird is calm, rant tuning down, giving him the weight of his stare and full attention.

“It’s like,” and he has to look away, to stare up at the ceiling, to blink and keep himself away from the final moments, to gather a whole _different_ kind of strength, “alla the bad comes first ‘cause....’cause I don’t remember enough of the other side to know if it _matters_ , you feel me? The first time I was a shithead, but I died as Robin, trying ta save my mother, and...it was fucking _noble_. But when it comes again...Timmy, when it comes for me again, what if the good don’t outweigh the bad?”

_Who is the betrayer?_

“What if the scales ain’t never gonna be square now? ‘Cause I got ta come _back_.”

_Who’s the killer in the crowd?_

“What if I don’t get anywhere but _gone_. Maybe you don’t get the choice again. Who fucking _knows?_ ”

_The one who creeps in corridors_

“And the only good things I got to offer up...the only thing I done _right_ this time...is that I made it square with you...and...and with him.”

_And doesn’t make a sound_

He must be hitting shock or something because he doesn’t even hear Timmy _move_. There’s just warmth when he’s already so fucking _cold_ inside and out. Just like first waking up when all he could see was darkness and the inside of that casket wasn’t as comfortable as it looked to the meatbags on legs lookin’ down.

But his hands can move just enough to grip Tim’s shoulders from behind, he can lay his face in the side of that neck and be fucking grateful.

_My love has concrete feet_

The window gives under real strength, banging fast and hard.

He comes up enough to snag the .45, not screaming when the pain train hits _full speed ahead_. Tim’s already got pellets, even though he’s holding the younger of them to his hurting chest with his free hand because he _ain’t gonna let Timmy go down that path before it’s his time_ —

When Nightwing leaps through, fast and furious, a whirl of feral destruction. Every muscle in his body is tense, a beautiful picture in that _suit_ , and he must be feeling the glad-ta-still-be-breathings because he can appreciate his boy animalistic grace when he’s utterly _pissed the hell off_.

It’s always a sight to behold.

Tonight? It’s even fucking better.

_My love’s an iron ball_

And the slow roll of those hips is the start of something utterly terrifying, the first Robin, former Titan, former Batman, and a whole lot of sexually charged vigilante powerhouse could be gearing up for a massive roundhouse to start the fight or could be a breath away from ripping your fucking clothes off to give you the ride _of your life_.

Or.

Could be hitting the wall with such stark _relief_ that’s an inescapable hold and lips on his forehead, always a soft Romani prayer a litany against evil, a plea of protection and strength.

But his boy _knows_. Knows him down to the _bone_. Is achingly soft and easy, the whiteouts up on the mask so those blue eyes are overwhelming.

_Wrapped around you ankles_

“M’ sorry, sweets,” is rough because almost drowning had that effect, but his boy is a sucker for the real pet names, always has been.

“You _asshole_ ,” Nightwing pulls off the domino to becomes his baby, his sweet, his sugar (his redemption, his avenger, his guardian angel), and the arms get tighter, making the pain arch in his abdomen, but it ain’t all that. Naw, there’s always _worse_.

_Over the waterfall_

“You should have waited. I said I was on the way.”

(Wouldn’ta mattered. We both know that.)

“I was almost too you when the warehouse exploded. Jesus, Jay, I thought— I thought…”

“Aw, naw, sweets,” and he’s pressing his mouth under his boy’s watery eyes, “I’ma hard motherfucker ta kill. Ain’tcha figured that out yet?”

“ _Fuck that_ , we both know better.” And those eyes spill over, making tracks through the dirt of Gotham still on his face.

_This will be my last confession_

If only...if only he could be the man his boy _deserves_.

Instead, he’s the man he _knows_ how to be, and draws the older vigilante down to fit their mouths together in a sloppy rendition of what might be a kiss, but is more breathing each other’s air, gripping each other to make sure it ain’t just a _dream_.

And he don’t have ta see it ta know his boy is gripping Timmy’s hand like a lifeline, like he’s a part of _them_.

He also knows Timmy’s gripping back just as tight.

_I was a heavy heart to carry_

_My beloved was weighed down_

_My arms around his neck_

_My fingers laced to crown_

None of them bitch when the two mobile vigilante strip down to boxers and crawl in bed with him. Tim’s cheeks and upper chest are a disturbing shade of red, but they don’t comment on it, not when they can’t let go of him any more than they can let go of one another.

They bracket him easy-like so the knee under his restrained leg takes some of the pressure off, and two fingers push hard enough to make the nerve clusters blissfully silent instead of radiating to his pain receptors.

His face is nestled in the crook of his boy’s neck, those long fingers rubbing soothing circles on the back of his neck while they all ignore the shamefully wet hitches in his breathing.

His grip is tight in Tim’s hair again, his shaky hand scratching against Baby Bird’s scalp to punctuated the _point_.

_I was a heavy heart to carry_

_But he never let me down_

_When he held me in his arms_

_My feet never touched the ground_

And it’s a crazy thing, one that strikes him at dark places where he stores the old pain and remorse, how he never thought he’d be _worth_ this kind of grief. How no one would be stupid enough to mourn a piece of shit like him. A stupid punk-ass what got himself offed.

But while his phone lights up with worried texts from Roy and Kory, while B is on his boy’s comm demanding to know the Red Hood didn’t bite the big one again, while Alfred is stress baking and B is pleading for them to put him on so Alf will just _chill the fuck out_ , while Timmy grips him, nuzzles a warm nose into his cold jugular, and his boy holds him in the present, those dark corners get...just a little bit of light.

Not too much to taint the darkness in his soul, just a slice enough so he can see how bright and white it is, so he can remember how warm it was to move into the first time, so he doesn’t have to be as afraid when the next time inevitably rolls around again.

_I’m so heavy…_

_So heavy in your arms..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno. I just liked them, so up they go. And I love this song to my soul, seriously. Check it out on YouTube if you haven't already. But, as always, thanks for checking it out XD


	8. Batfam AOB Attempt: Part 5 Dick/Tim/Jay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Heat Mania is still one of those 'ways no one wants you to die,' Pack Alpha Dick Grayson has to call in some reinforcements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This? Is terrible angst and smut. I regret nothing.

Batfam AOB 5

B is automatically _concerned_.

Dick’s jaw is tight, his eyes narrowed with forehead furrowed in worry.

"It’s been more than a week, Bruce. I can hardly get him to eat or drink now, and if something doesn’t happen soon, I’m going to have put him on an IV. He’s almost delusional at this point."

The deprivation Tim had put his body under, the stress and strain from the last time he’d let himself have a natural Heat is obviously taking it’s _toll_ –

And could possibly kill him.

Dick is similarly worried and determined. He’d working himself twice as hard as an Alpha to boost the sick Omega’s hormone intake, do everything, _anything_ in his power to ease the suffering of his packmate.

"All right," B ruthless squashes down his inner Beta instinct to _get to his son now_ because the detective knows there is _nothing_ he can do to help, "all right, Dick...what do you need?"

His oldest son, with the silent Titan’s Tower Communal Floor as his backdrop, seems to get more grim. "Jason, B. I need Jason."

For a second, the Caped Crusader draws in a taunt breath, "you need another Alpha."

"Yes," and Dick’s eyes are darker, the expression usually reserved for bad news, "I know what kind of state he’s in...I mean, Bruce, I...I can’t bring him out of it. This is the last resort."

"I should have planned for it," is the inevitable come-back, "once he told me how long it had been, I should have seen this coming. Damn. _Dammit_." It’s Bruce slamming his fist down on the computer, growling while the Batman hovers in the peripherals–trying to still make _plans_. (Synthetic Alpha hormone may at least reduce the symptoms, give them a _chance_.)

"This kind of Heat Mania is a wild card, B. You _know_ that, and we just found out how far Timmy’s been neglecting himself."

B runs a gloved hand down his face, brow furrowed.

"Hey, c’mon," Dick’s voice becomes more soothing, a lower range, automatically easing the leader of their pack, "not even the World’s Greatest Detective can control biology and it’s many wonders, Bruce. But...get Jason here as fast as you can, and I will take complete responsibility for any fallout. When he’s stable and lucid, I’ll tell him it was my call."

"Dick–"

"He can’t _consent_ like this, and there’s no way Raven or Cassie could even–"

"I know. Dick, _I know_ , but we can’t let it kill him. We’re getting him back and I’ll be _damned_ if this is what takes him." Even though they are completely _out of options_ on this one, the clench in his chest is stark _fear_ , and his fists tighten in his gloves anyway because _God_ , this could _break_ Tim if his apparent aversion of Alphas extended to Jason joining his first Heat in _over_ two _years_ to make sure he gets enough hormones to keep his body from failing.

Bruce wishes there was some other way, something else they could do to make sure–

But he’s lost enough people in his life. He _can’t_ lose another one of his Robins, not another _son_ , a _partner_ , a _friend._

He’s not going to lose Tim. He– _they_ can’t.

"Let me know if he gets any worse. Jason’s almost at the Manor now. I’m giving him an abbreviated version while Clark finishes up at the Watch Tower, and then he’s on his way."

Dick seems a strange combination of relieved and troubled at the same time, but the screen goes dark as the oldest Alpha goes back to his Omega, his _pack_ , in need.

**

Jason Todd hits Titan’s Tower with his arm thrown around Superman’s shoulders like they’re best bros.

Well, he _has_ gotten fond of the overgrown Boy Scout in the last few years (but if the sonofabitch hurts B _ever_ , well, the Red Hood is a man that _knows_ all about pretty green meteorite _asshole_ ), but leaves him with a wave and just jumps into the most convenient vent he already knows will take him right where he needs to be.

Since he ain’t _stupid_ ‘er nothing, Hood doesn’t even try the vents to the Perch (yeah, yeah, he knows all about the pressure traps, _Timmy._ All kind of _aware_ of someone’s paranoid tendencies), he hits the Communal Floor being careful as _fuck_ and still not even going to make a try for the Perch. Instead, he removes the helmet with a soft _shaaa_ and opens up the comm line.

"Got some Hood in th’ Tower, boys. Howz about one a’ ya’s lemme in, yeah?"

He moves to the hidden staircase behind one wall, using one of the codes Tim gave him back when they were on the up and up, hoping it still works.

When the wall slides out, he grins and takes the stairs two-at-a-time. Bracing both palms on the doorframe, Hood breathes out while he waits for the door to be unlocked, gets himself in the mindset for what’s going to do down inside.

Sure, he’s like any other Alpha, drawn to a ‘Mega what needs lookin’ after, and _sure_ , maybe he and Dickie talked about what they could possibly get away with should they ever get a chance to have the third Robin a nice lil’ _addition_ to their bedroom. And he gave full permission for Dick to get his ass _ghost_ and save their bird or else he was gonna shoot Big Wing’s fulla holes, but this scenario, fuck or die, had never been his _ideal_.

He didn’t see the eventual road come ta _this_. He’s a little irritated he doesn’t get the younger vigilante lucid and clear enough ta take apart _slowly_ , ta watch Dickie take him, make him feel so _good_ before he jumps on that train to make the sexy mother _fucker_ scream their names until he ain’t nothing but a trembling, wrung-out mess tucked inta their bed ‘til they maybe wanna let ‘im go ( _never, you little asshole, consider y’self ours_ ).

But if Timmy can lookit ‘im in the _eye_ after it’s all said and done–well, they’re gonna get their _chance_ to do just that with the sexiest, most dangerous Omega he’s ever _met_.

And alla it’s ‘bout to be under his hands, his _mouth_. He was gonna get ta lay ‘im out, get some _access_ to–

Jason groans, head dropping down between his shoulder blades because _fuck_ , now he’s hard in the body suit, getting wet at the tip, thinking, _wondering_ how sweet Timmy’s slick might be–

When the door slides open, a soft sigh, and Dick is there mirroring his position, palms braced against the door frame, panting a little with his eyes and hair wild, and his upper lip is curled up, baring his teeth to the _root_.

_Shit. That’s fucking **Bats** for ya, one goddamned crisis ain’t enough. Gotta stack ‘em up_.

He shoulda thought of it, if Dickie was servicing their ‘Mega, tryin’ ta pump him fulla hormones, sure he’d sink as deep inta his inner A as possible.

And scent another Alpha in _threat_ mode–even if the other Alpha is his sweetie-pie.

Well, Jay could work with this, and his chest rumbles with a familiar, low _purr_. He comes up _slow_ until his nose is nudging at Dick’s jaw, moving down to lick under his chin in submission to the Eldest Alpha of the pack.

"Jus’ me, Baby Boy. Yer the one what called f’ me, yeah?" He let his tongue trail down to Dick’s jugular, biting lightly, calling to his ( _mate_ ) boyfriend. "M’ here f’ ya. Came runnin’ when ya _need_ me."

"Jay–" is more growl, coming from deep in Dick’s throat, still walking the edge of feral, "Jason."

"Mmhm," Jay gives one more kiss and leans back up.

"Sorry, _sorry_ , Little Wing, I–"

"S’okay. I getcha." He leans in to nose against Dick’s, gets a half-desperate kiss and arms around his back. They rest their foreheads together for a crucial moment, the tentative bond, something not shown (yet) by bites on the sweet spot above the scent gland, but by how they can do _this_ , can be _this_ together, planning the next step in a strange harmony.

"B said it was bad, Dickie. Anythin’ I need ta know before I come in?"

The older Alpha breathes a deep sigh, "the second you touch him...you’ll never want to let go."

Said with more gravity than Jason expected (so not fucking around then), and he quirks a grin, leaning up enough to slide off his jacket, revealing a stunning _lack_ of holsters.

"Then I guess we’re gonna haveta tell B, _sorry, boss, needs some time off_ until we woo ourselves an ass kickin’ ‘Mega, you feel me?"

Dick’s smile lights up his whole face, a sensual, feral _anticipation_.

"I like that plan so, so much–"

But the scent finally reaches them from further inside the Perch, a haunting, _addictive_ sweet musk, a scent that makes Jason’s mouth immediately start to water, his hands clench hard against the doorframe as his cock comes back to full hardness, ready to _serve_ the creature with that smell.

As one, both Alphas’ gazes snap to the barely visible hallway, and the low, rolling purrs, the shift of hips, working to prepare, to _worship_ , to service and satisfy.

Dick doesn’t even look back, just slides a hand around the frame to grip Jason by the wrist and pull the unprotesting Alpha inside.

**

Even though his body is literally _on fucking fire_ and his brain pan is seriously short-circuiting, the scent wafting in of _Alpha_ , a different, darker, heavier scent than the one caring for him, goes right to the heart of the vigilante _before_ the Omega in need.

(And it’s telling, regardless of how far _gone_ he is, the vigilante in him, the old school _Robin_ , is the instinct that takes _precedent_.)

The sheet Alpha gently laid over him pulls out easy when he can’t spot his suit or even a pair of _boxers_ , the room is oddly…picked up. But even with his hazy vision and shaky limbs, he manages to snag a whirlybird out of the weapons case and almost fall against the wall behind the bathroom, panting with the effort.

He forces his hand to hold the whirlybird tight, forces his weak knees to keep him leaning against the support while clenching the sheet around his waist with the other hand.

Copper at the back of his tongue and the meaty beat of his pulse and he’s so fucking _weak_ he doesn’t know if he can take anyone down, but dammit if he isn’t going to _try_. (And _no_ , he’s not going to give in to his inner Omega and cry because his Alpha abandoned him. And _everyone always abandons him eventually_. He’s a terrible Omega, remember? Who _would_ stay?)

Tim bites down on his lower lip _hard_ , hard enough to draw blood and drag himself back out those _stupid_ instincts, to try being Red when he feels pathetically like Tim.

The footsteps are quick, someone coming for him _fast_ , and he forces himself to stop panting, to hold his breath, forearm to tighten, knees to bend without giving way completely. He has to get his shit together, has to defend himself, has to _fight_ when all ( _he_ ) his instincts want is someone, _someone_ , that gives enough of a shit about him to _have his fucking back._

Footsteps pause just inside the bedroom and he swallows hard, closes his eyes for an instant, gathering his strength.

The next step in, the soft _thup_ of boots rather than bare feet and he places the intruding Alpha, spins before his instincts counter his inner vigilante, throwing the whirlybird with a snarl even if he has to brace himself on the wall ( _again_ ) to keep standing.

The loud, " _fuck!_ " is familiar.

So is the hulking form of the Red Hood that didn’t quite dodge as effectively as he probably _should have_.

The whirlybird glances off his abruptly raised gauntlets and Jay’s eyes are wide, outlined by the red domino.

Both hands come up in the usual, _not dangerous, don’t kick my ass_ gesture.

"Tim? Timmy, s’just me. Just Jay, Baby Bird. Ain’t gonna hurt ‘cha." The Alpha soothes, placating, knees bending to make himself shorter, less intimidating, "we ain’t _there_ no more, right? Been a long time since then. We’re better n’ _good_ now, you n’ me."

The surprise doesn’t make his vigilante instincts back down _at all_. He’s still panting, still baring his teeth to the root in a _try me, asshole_ , snarl. Another Alpha, another Alpha that could take him on like this, that could _win_. He’s too weak to trust an Alpha that could hold him down, bite him, fuck him, try fucking _kids_ into him. Not enough room to maneuver well, not enough weaponry, not enough contingencies, and his brain can’t _function_.

The Omega, however, _knows_ the Alpha in his spotty vision, catches something _familiar_ in his scent ( _the Pit_ ). The Red Hood. And he _knows_. Knows the Alpha is strong and capable, has had enough time to change the Alpha’s designation from _watch your ass_ to _safesafesafe_.

The warring instincts make him simultaneously want to fall to his knees and whine while delivering a fantastic upper-cut followed by an elbow to the face.

_Fuck_. _Decisions, decisions._

Dick, still carrying the water bottle he’d retrieved for the ( _his, their_ ) Omega, leaps naked through the door, landing at a crouch for any oncoming adversaries. When he subtly scents the air, catches no one else but the three of them, he slowly starts to straighten, purring low, deep in his chest when he catches the hint of Timmy’s _fear_ and anxiety.

Those eyes, the blue-violet dart over to him, assess him just like he’s a _threat_ now, narrow in barely-concealed hurt before sliding back to Jason. Even swaying on his feet, panting like he’d run a mile, pale enough to almost match the sheet in his trembling fist, his body working on the very _end_ of its’ endurance, Dick doesn’t even want to _know_ what damage he could possibly do, you know, _to them_. ( _Assassin training, remember?_ )

"Hey, Pretty Bird," he croons softly, "I went to let Jay in and get you some water, okay? Not abandoning you, baby, I promise. Your Alpha isn’t going to leave you, remember?"

The low growl is still a warning, a _reminder_ of who they’re fucking with on this one.

"Jay is here to _help_ , Pretty Bird." With easy, visible motions, Dick cracks the seal on the water bottle, holds it out, and takes careful, measured steps. His scent is soothing, supportive, getting closer to the overwrought Omega. "I told you I had to call in help because your Heat is still too intense."

Another eyes dance to him, a blink in recognition when Dick’s scent turns soothing and gentle like sweet musk, then back to Jay.

Slowly, while Dick approaches, Tim brings the sheet up to his chest to automatically to cover his scars because he’d thrown a whirlybird at Hood. _Fuck_ , his brain is an explosion of warring instincts, Red’s, Tim’s, Omega’s–and it takes him a minute to remember that _yes_ , he and Hood work together, patch each other up, watch terrible stand-up comedies or documentaries on Netflix.

"…J-Jay?" he rasps out, sweating slightly with strain of holding his body up.

The Red Hood pulls off the domino, and it’s enough for Tim to visibly relax, looking at the Alpha without the mask, "hey Timmers," deep and soft, a side of Jason he’d never _heard_ , didn’t know _existed_ but made his muscles tremble a little. "Not doin’ too good, yeah? Could almost scent ya outside, got me all _kinds_ of concerned."

Jay sidles up a little closer, all kind of easy, trying to be what Tim knew, what he could _recognize_. Someone that pulled his ass out of bad sitches more often than what used ta happen. To get those instincts to cool down, he’s gonna have to remind their bird just _why_ Jay was (is) Tim’s _Robin_.

"Big Wing threw down the deets," Jason stoops down enough so he can hold those dazed eyes, "n’ I can smell why he called. Glad as fuck he did, you feel me?"

And with that familiar cock-eyed smirk, the affection in those eyes that was a long, painful time coming, the vigilante in Tim finally recognizes, eases down enough that he has to brace a hand on his desk to keep on his feet.

Jason grips a bicep, pulling his glove off one hand with his teeth so the bare hand can press against the Omega’s forehead, "ain’t none of this good, Baby Bird. ‘Megas r’ s’pposed ta be outta Heat in three, four days _max_."

He moves with Big Wing before he knows any different, one arm sliding around the Omega’s back, sheet and all, to keep him on his feet while Dick holds the water bottle to his mouth, and purrs louder in satisfaction when Tim drinks.

Blinking, trying to get his thoughts in some kind of order ( _Jay was...worried? Here to help…?_ ), he drinks because Alpha wants him to, allows the second Alpha to hold him up, transferring his hand from the desk to gripping the Red Hood’s jacket.

When Dick takes the bottle away, he still sounds like raspy, hoarse _ass_ , but at least he’s not itching to fight or fuck (for the moment because it’s _Jay_ , isn’t it?). "Hey-hey man, m’ good, y’ know? Sucks but s’okay...ah, don’t have any...cereal for you to mooch. Sorry ‘bout it."

Jason lets up his hold long enough to ditch the jacket, remaining glove, and gauntlets, manages to offer a guffaw even while his nose is telling him the real business. His eyes dart over to meet Dickie’s. With the sobriety of his normally hilarious boyfriend, the understanding flares between them just like it did nine days ago in Gotham after Super Clone picked up their bird ( _go, go take care a’ ‘im_ )–now, they agree Tim’s scent is too sickly sweet this close up, already tinges of the sickening smell of dying Omega. Like the Joker’s _Candy Shop of Hell_ kind of scent.

"Naw, not here fer yer eats, Timmy." Carefully, his bare hand fits right along Tim’s jaw, tilting his face up just slightly, and he holds those slightly more lucid eyes, gauging the influx of information.

His voice gets low and soft, "m’ here for a whole ‘nother reason, Timmy."

"Case?" Is slightly more slurred, even when Tim strained to perk up, "gotta case, Jay? Gimmie...gimmie a few—"

"Nope," followed by a shake of his head, and now Jason is leaning down again with a whole _different_ purpose, tilting his head just slightly, baring his neck to fit the Omega’s nose right into that _spot_ where his scent is the strongest, the most enticing now that he’s the Red Hood in suit only, the scent blockers he used for the streets scrubbed off once B laid down the _deets_ on why he had to get his ass in gear.

(First thing, wash. Not gonna come ta a ‘Mega in _need_ smelling like blood and darkness.)

And Tim’s eyes roll back, flutter at the proximity, at how _close_ and how _good_ the heavy musk slides around his senses, something heavier than Dick’s, something _darker_ , how it reaches down in the place where Omega, vigilante, and ordinary guy can _agree_ on certain things:

The Red Hood smells like something he wants to roll around in and let that scent get all over his _skin_ , to join Dick’s musk in marking him as being _owned_.

The urge jars him right the fuck _out of it_.

His logical shakes off the instincts, and Tim pulls himself _back_ from the very tempting span of Jason’s neck so fast, he almost slams the back of his head against the wall (Dick...Dick is moving so _fast_ isn’t he? Fast enough to already be palming the crown of his skull to keep him from hurting himself) because _no, no_. There’s something important here he needs to remember, something _crucial._

_(Fuck he smells_ good _)_

"A-Alpha…" and the sound is a pathetic, questioning whimper.

"I’m right here, Pretty Bird," Dick coos, those fingers now scratching lightly in his scalp. "It’s okay. Are you with us? Tim...Tim your Heat isn’t slowing down and it’s been almost _nine days_."

Some connection in his brain finally hits home and he looks owlishly up at Dick and then at the rueful expression on Jay’s face.

"Nine days...Heat Mania," he husks out, "still...still could—"

"You’re getting weaker, baby," Dick gently tilts his face up, looks into those dazed eyes starting to gloss over. "You’re not getting enough hormones to balance your system. At this point, I don’t even know if synthetic would help you or hurt you–"

_Too long, waited too long_.

"‘S why Jay’s here," he fills in, blinking, getting blurry again, the burning in his belly starting to thread into his veins, to catch his whole body. "More Alpha hormones?"

Dick growls low when Tim averts his eyes, pulls him _back_ because _no, no hiding from your Alpha_. "Raven and Cassie won’t be able to take care of you quickly enough, and… and, Tim, _Timmy,_ you’re scaring me. You’re not coming out of it."

And Jay actually _hears it_ , the soft, barely-there noise coming from the Omega. A thing he could have _imagined_ he mighta heard if he didn’t know any better (well, he sure as _shit_ knows _now_ ). A whine, a plea to be taken care of, to be soothed, to be held; his body is out-of-control, isn’t getting _better_ and he’s finally starting to _fear_.

Even fuzzy and hot, Tim knows this isn’t something he can _out-think_.

The noise unwillingly drawn from him is a noise of _need_ that winds down his spine, takes hold of all Jason Todd’s instincts and brings them to the fore.

(It makes him so _angry_ , so fulla _biting rage_ gnawing at his guts because of how soft and weak that _noise_ is, how just fucking _fine_ it is with Timmy that his own fucking pack abandoned him when he _needed._ )

He moves with Dick automatically, pulling Tim close until he’s pressed against the two of them, held up by them both.

"S’okay, Baby Bird," and he closes his eyes briefly, talking in that too long hair, "m’ here ta help. Dickie says ’s all copasetic."

A fine tremor goes through the Omega, making his knees wobble, and the Alphas firm their grip without a hitch.

"Easy, easy. I ain’t gotta take ya alla way if ya don’t wanna go that far, yeah? We ain’t gotta go there, Tim. All y’ gotta do is just lemme touch a lil’, lemme get a nice lookit ya all laid out. Lemme get just a lil’ bit of yer sweet in my mouth. Gimmie somethin’ I can _remember_." He feels more than hears Dick’s low moan vibrate through his chest, making Tim arch just a little because _God_ , Jason’s _mouth_ , "Lemme...just lemme take _care_ a’ ya some, like I’m s’pposed ta. Lemme be a good Alpha, Timmy."

The Omega’s arm around his shoulder is shaking enough to make Jay and Dick start to move subtly closer to the bed without lifting his gaze from the strain on Tim’s face.

"Fuck, _fuck_ ," the youngest slurs while he moves on weak legs, "this–this _sucks_ for you, Jay. M’ sorry, _shit_ you’re going to have to– _fuck_ , but I mean...you don’t really _have_ to–" and he can barely _think_ of how to make this _okay_ for Jason, how he can try to make sure they can all walk away after this is done without regrets hanging over them.

"Nu-uh, that ain’t where we need ta be headin’ right now," Jay and Dick ease the Omega back down to the bed, petting with affection and care, "what ‘cha gonna be thinking about, while I’m doing what I’m doing, is how good Dickie feels holding ya fer me, how much ya like what’s doin’. Ain’t nothin’ more important right now than ya lettin’ ole’ Jay make ya feel _good_ , Sugar. Gonna be good, lettin’ me get ya nice and ready f’ Alpha, yeah? So’s he can just ease right in ta fill ya up, just like ya need, just like y’ gotta _have_."

With his lips bitten and laid back against the messy bed, Tim’s working brain tenses, waits, _wants_ as Jason Todd licks his lips at all that pale skin, the dips and grooves meant for ( _his_ ) hands and lips, tongue and teeth. Those eyes looking up at him, dazed and sinking into his instincts, letting himself be taken care of, letting himself be _wanted_ and _had_ , and that soft look is more erotic than Jay’s imagination could have spit out in a month of Sundays.

When he starts lowering the sheet just enough to lean down so he can suck and mouth at the Omega’s hips, taking it slow n’ easy, Tim turns his face into Dick’s thigh, breathes out, shaky, gives Dick a reason to turn him just a little more so he can lean down as well, can map Tim’s mouth all over again, put a mark on him, a _claim_. The mock-fuck the Alpha is doing to his mouth just makes the fire burn more, hotter and stinging, makes his cock _strain_ still caught in the sheets.

And Jay makes it to the spot he _wants_ (one of ‘em anyhow), the scar on Timmy’s hip. Idly, he thumbs over it before he bends to lap at it ever so gently, reverently. And Jay breathes shakily in, eyes dilating slightly, just before he sinks his teeth _in_.

He has to grip Baby Bird to keep him from jolting away, keep him right where he needs to be while the scar, the mark put on him by the Red Hood himself, gets the worship, the _apology,_ it’s _due_.

He presses his mouth to _that_ mark, _his_ mark to soothe the bite. But the mark is a _reminder_ , something to document pain and anger and insanity, the proof of what a bastard he was to scar up a ‘Mega like this (but the marks he’s leavin’ now? Them’s the easy kinda bruises, right along with the sore muscles from a whole _‘nother_ side a’ town).

He eases the sheet down, keeping the hard, leaking cock covered until he gets a _please, Jay, please_ , and mouths at marks higher on Baby Bird’s ribs, listening, pleased with the high whines, the thighs moving and flexing around him, but then he sinks down a little _more_ , leans his chest to press right against the Omega’s throbbing cock, moving to go back to mouth idly at his mark...and starts to _purr_.

Tim is panting, eyes wet as he writhes against the bed, caught between the two of them in a loop of hands and mouths and _everything_ is sensitive, every inch mapped by their hands. Jay’s chest vibrates against the sensitive base of his cock, traps it between their bodies, holds him still to _take it_. He’s barely able to do more than grip the back of Jason’s neck and Dick’s thigh while they work him over, ground him through the burning in his body, the instincts rising up to make him pliant, weak with _need_.

The buried part of him that Dick ( _Alpha_ ) has slowly been bringing forward during the intense Heat, the _Omega_ that has been _denied_ for so fucking long, the one that wanted to be strong enough to defend his pack, to care for those that are _his_ –the one that wanted their scents and marks and gentleness when he was the one close to the _edge_ , the one that had been dying inside him since Dami walked out in his tunic without another word about it, is the reason his eyes get hot abruptly.

His body reeks of Dick’s alluring musk, now heavier with tinges of Jay’s claim, and he’s smelled neutral, like Beta for so, so long that being covered in _their scents_ –

He arches, fists clenching the sheets, closes his eyes _tight_ against it, against being overwhelmed, but slick is spilling out of him and he can’t even think enough to do anything other than _ask_. "P-please, Jay... _please_."

" _Fuck_ , baby," Jay grinds out, deep and half-hoarse, looking intent while finally sweeping the cotton sheet away from Tim’s body, baring him to the Alpha’s hot gaze, slick and panting, scarred and _So. Fucking. Pretty_.

"Y’ look s’ good," and those hands splay wide, moving up the inside of his thighs, thumbs making soothing circles over the trembling muscle, "s’ _good_ layin’ out for me. That’s a sweet lil’ ‘Mega, a _fine-as-fuck_ ‘Mega, lettin’ me get justa bit a’ ya."

And the cloying, enticing scent of Tim’s slick get thicker, tangible for the Red Hood because _fuck_ he can almost taste it now, _wants it_ like he’s almost _dying_ again. He breathes out a shaky exhale, fighting to keep himself easy and all calm-like, and licks his lips because his mouth is _watering_.

Tim whimpers, while his Alpha noses at his ear and eases his hands out of white-knuckled fist.

"He’s been so amazing, Jay," Dick picks up, his tone possessive, part growl, one hand lightly skims up Tim’s leg, pauses to thumbing over the bone in his hip, "So perfect for me. Exactly what I wanted. He let me make him come over and over. God, he was so _beautiful_ when he let me have him."

Their noses pick up the sharp spike in that sweet smell again while Tim’s eyes flutter and his back arches.

His head tilts _just enough_ to offers himself _up_.

Jay can’t help but growl low and deep at the obvious scent of arousal, of the place of fucking _beauty_ that is the tender spot on his neck offered _up_ for the taking. 　

And he shudders with the temptation, eyes for the sweet tendon, the mouth-watering scent gland, to know he could be the lucky fella takin’ _care_ of this little self-sacrificing _shithead_. Could have sleepy mornings and patrols, could have this body pressed against him anytime, to take care of him whenever he _needed_.

Easy-like, Jason leans up between Timmy’s thighs to nose at the offer, to place the gentlest of kisses right against that _spot_.

Dick rumbles with agreement, his second reinforcing the promise of support by also marking Tim with the scent of _pack_. No teeth, no claiming bite. Just scent, just getting this _close_. It’s the beginning of a pack-bond between an Alpha and the pack’s Omega. Given time would only grow stronger if Timmy was okay with it, if he could feel safe enough trusting them again to be _their_ Omega, but it’s something that is _way_ the fuck overdue, something Tim should have never been _without_. But, with the realizations, knowing the Omega had been walking through the vigilante life without the support of his Alphas, without his _pack_ (because no Titans’ scent on him _either_ ), makes the Alpha, the _man_ , in Jason Todd unequivocally _pissed off_. All the things that could have _happened_ , all the other Alphas that could have forced the Omega, taken him against his will because he didn’t belong to _anyone_ , all the gutters he could have just laid right down in because no one was going to come for him, because his call would never be _answered_.

(Never again, Timmy, _never fucking again_ ). 　

But with that pledge against the vein in Tim’s neck, the slow wetness of his tongue, the settling of his scent, all of it would tell _any_ nosy mother _fuckers_ just who this pain-in-the-ass _belongs to_ , who would catch him when he started to fall. No matter what or where, if Tim needed him, he would _come_.

He noses against that spot, rubbing circles on the tense, trembling thighs. Jay’s eyes turn up to the elder Alpha, and he licks his lips in anticipation, one brow cocked in a _please, say I can. C’mon, Baby Boy, lemme **have**_.

Their pack’s Alpha chuffs and his mouth cuts into a wide, sly smile; Jason can’t help but groan again because that’s all the permission he _needs_. He palms the side of Tim’s hot face, his thumb idly rubbing right below the swollen lower lip because Timmy apparently likes ta _bite_.

And they’re gonna make him gnash his teeth and look fucking _beautiful_ while he do.

But first.

"Gonna be s’ good f’ me, ain’t cha?" and he leans down to nose against their bird’s, nuzzling him, giving in to his instincts ‘cause this ‘Mega _needs_. Needs so _fucking_ much. "An’ I’ma take _care_ a’ ya Timmy. Just like I shoulda oughta always _been_."

Since he isn’t trying to set Tim off, he’s easy about the first kiss, barely any pressure, just a small swipe of his tongue against the seam. But the younger vigilante’s eyes are half-open when he makes another small, _noise_.

"S’all right, Sugar. Y’ don’t gotta hide, not from us," he breathes out against that _mouth_ before he _takes_.

Just ‘cause Timmy feels perfect against him, he can’t help but work himself against the Omega’s straining cock, his already _painful_ and _constrained_ in the Red Hood body suit, and even though he mighta spent some _time_ as Robin learning how ta keep his head, not be _overcome_ , by his inner Alpha, it’s _Tim_ under him, panting and trembling with so much _need_ , open and uncontrolled (and _fuck_ is Baby Bird making it _hard_ on him when he smells like this, and _moves_ like this, tightens his thighs around Jay’s, and makes soft _noises_ inta his mouth? He’s only a _man_ for Chrissake).

“I...Jason– _Jay_ , y-you don’t–” because is this- is this really _okay?_ As much as his body _wants_ it, as much as he _needs_ it, Tim is with it enough to know the ownership he’s breaking into here. _(But the scent-mark left on his neck–does it…?)_

“Aw Timmy, can’tcha scent me? Don’tcha feel how _hard_ I am f’ ya? Think my eyes don’t work? Like y’ aren’t the most beautiful thing I ever saw? Bein’ s’ good f’ me like this,” and Jay’s already moving back down between Tim’s legs to settle right in, be where he needs to be. "And all’s I wantcha t’ do is hold on ta Alpha. Hold ‘em _real_ tight so’s I can take ya ta paradise, yeah? Ain’t gotta do _nothing_ but hold on."

And Tim catches the predatory look when Jay finally sinks back to his knees and runs both bare hands from the bone in his ankles _up_ his legs to smooth the insides of his thighs again, heavy with _intent_ , and the touch leaving his nerve endings tingling, his body tightening.

His eyes go to Dick, wide and anxious (just _too many reasons to count because Jason Todd is kneeling between his legs **right now**_ ), too many thoughts warring with his instincts.

"Shit, _shit_. W-wait,” he’s with it enough to be _fast_ , his hands gripping Jay’s wrists to stop the progression between his thighs, leaning away from Dick’s warmth and so he can at least _try_ to think. What he gets are both Alphas freezing (Bat-stillness) and very carefully looking at him, waiting for him, ready to do what he needs them to do either way.

(But Dick’s hands are still palming his ribs and Jay’s cupping the inside of his thighs, points of heat and pleasure that make him want to _beg_ –)

It’s telling that his brain is functioning enough to just _make sure_ he’s not royally fucking up everything with this. With his too-long tousled hair over his eyes, he can _hide_ enough to say, “are you sure Dick? Is this–is this really okay? He’s... _yours_ and I– Jay, you don’t really have to do _this_. I just...I need to be close enough to scent you, right? You don’t...I mean you don’t need to–" but he’s babbling to keep himself from sinking further, from the Omega in him to get _greedy_. Dick has already taken care of him through the majority of his Heat and now Jason Todd is going to make the same sacrifice, to take one for the _team_. It’s the Alpha in him ( _right?_ ).

"Oh _baby_ ," Alpha croons, hands tightening as Dick _moves_ enough to pull him back against the steady heartbeat and ( _safegoodAlpha_ ) support. One of those hands slides up his body, palming his jaw, thumb running over his bitten lower lip, "I wouldn’t have asked him here if he didn’t want you, too, okay?”

As if to exemplify this point, Jason moves slowly, watching Tim’s reactions carefully, to the spans of thigh. The rush of hot breath hits over-sensitive skin, earning a noise just as he runs the flat of his tongue along the line of Tim’s femoral artery, the point of his racing pulse, and the motion makes Tim’s chest vibrate with another of those barely-there sounds and embarrassing the utter _shit_ out of him.

It’s a stupid thing when Dick can anticipate him–already gripping the hand on its’ way to his mouth to stop that weakness from spilling out. Instead, his arm is held against his chest and Alpha soothes him, nuzzling him under the ear until he eases down enough to stop trying to _hide_.

“Jay _jumped_ at the chance to be with you like this. Look–" and his chin is tilted down to the utterly sinful look on the Alpha’s face, the stark _hunger_ while he keeps moving _down_ , to to run his tongue over the bone of Tim’s ankle...and _shudders._

"Look how gone he is for you, Tim," Dick orders, low and deep, _Alpha_. "Look how much he _wants_."

He bites down on his lower lip, trying to stop the next noise at the heat and need in the younger Alpha’s eyes, the strength of those hands, the familiar depths of his scent

"Smell s’ good, Tim, and fuck you _taste_ –" another shudder before those _eyes_ roll back up at him, full of all the things Tim had only seen in his mental slideshow of fuckable material. And like it’s coming from his brain pan, Jason’s hands slide up to grip under his knees _tight_ , pull him down the bed enough to methodically throw his thighs right over those broad shoulders.

"O-Oh…" he swallows hard, can’t look _away_ from those eyes.

" _But_ ," and Jay breathes against his hyper-sensitive skin again, hands now gripping him, _opening_ him, "it ain’t a _’nuff_ , Timmy. Gotta have _more_ , alla you can gimmie, yeah?"

His brain blanks out because Jay’s going to...he’s going to–

Jay’s grin becomes _sharp_ , eyes sliding to Dick, the Alpha arranging himself to slide in right behind Tim, to hold his Omega, soothing him with a hand on the back of his neck. shifting into his hair. "Big Wing, like mana, ain’t it? Best ya ever had?"

And Dick leans up on an elbow with Tim’s back pressing against his chest, surrounding his Omega with skin and warmth and soothing scent so they can both _watch_ , "I think we already covered that Jay, but just, tell me how hard it is to stop making him come after you’ve tasted him."

Jay’s eyes dilate, his chest rumbling deeper against Tim’s knees and just _those eyes_.

That look means he might be in some–

(The back of his thighs are gripped, spreading him wide so Jason can see everything, can lean in and _fucking scent him_ , can scent his _slick_.)

–trouble.

"Fuck," is breathed out shakily, and Jay bites off a moan before he’s running his tongue over the place where ass meets thigh before he’s nosing his way up, stopping long enough to place a kiss on Tim’s ass cheek before he _bites_.

Dick tilts his head back to have at his mouth just as he cries out at the feel of teeth, sharp and _perfect_ , a tongue sliding over him so the burning in his veins starts to sting and move and shift with his blood pumping, and opening his mouth isn’t even a _question_ , not when Dick is sucking on his tongue, licking into him while the puffs of breath on his most sensitive skin, heightened _more_ by the Heat, make him hard and leaking just _that fast_.

He moans in Dick’s mouth, whimpering softly when his Alpha pulls back, lifts one of his shaky arms so Tim can grip his shoulder, "hold on to me, Pretty Bird. This...this is going to get intense. Jay...well, Jay might be a little _excited_."

He blinks a little, already lost in the haze to get what Dick is trying to say, already too empty when his body craves to be full, wanting– _needing_ a _knot_ again, wants it so much he’s breathless for it. He’s sinking so _fast_ into base instinct just like he’s done for _days_ , his body falling right in line and to hell with what his brain pan has to say about it.

...but he _gets it_ when Jay opens him even wider, and _starts to work_.

His Alpha surrounds him, holds him, keeps him from writhing right off the _bed_ , mouths against his throat and shoulders while all he can do is _hold the fuck on_.

Well, and scream, and call out Jason’s name like he’s fucking _dying_.

But the Red Hood doesn’t even bother to come up for _air_ , naw that shit ain’t necessary. What he needs to be doing is right here, is working Timmy, his Sugar, their Pretty Bird, with his lips and teeth and tongue, to make the sweetness, the hints, the _tease_ already honey on his tongue, flow, show ‘im he’s doing Timmy _right_ , givin’ ‘im what he _needs_.

Jay dedicates himself to learning every inch of skin, making him _wet_ , lickin’ and suckin’ so he can get it _all_.

( _Gimmie alla it, Sugar. Gimmie your sweetness_. _)_

He groans right where he’s at, feeling the jerk of the thighs held down _tight_ over his shoulders, finally frees one hand to run down the taunt, trembling muscle, to soothe the ( _their_ ) bird under his mouth, let ‘im know he’s in good hands, just hold on, baby. I’ma give ya a _ride_. He sucks, running the flat of his tongue all the way around and finally breaching this body, his ass-kicking partner, the closet ‘Mega what fucking _needed_ them, needed them _not_ to be dip shits, gave away alla his secrets just by pulling Jay’s ass outta the fire every fucking chance he got.

Made a whole lotta sense now. And since it _do_ , Jason Todd, Alpha, has a mother _fucking_ job ta accomplish, and he will make _(their, his)_ this Omega come until he _screams_.

A hand winds in his hair, Tim’s shallow pants interrupted by Dick’s mouth and crooning encouragements.

But Tim can’t _think_ , his brain isn’t _working_ on anything other than _oh God_ and _moremoremore._ As the torture continues and he _can’t_ stay _still_ , writhes in Jason’s and Dick’s hands, he gets more lucid and less hot, the added Alpha pheromones scenting the air finally, _finally_ clearing out the hazy fog of _need_. He’s lucid enough to feel himself open up for Jason with sharper clarity, moaning out against his Alpha’s neck or in his mouth, helpless to do much more.

" _Fuck_ , I can’t! I _can’t_ ," because the sucking at his rim, the pressure _inside_ him to draw out his slick, makes him even wetter, makes the heat in his veins _burn_.

Jay doesn’t move, just works him _harder_ , fucking into him with his tongue, adding fingers when Tim seems to be able to take them.

Dick is talking gently against his jaw, saying soothing, encouraging things (“ _So beautiful, Tim. So perfect, such a good Omega, letting Little Wing touch you like this. You make me so proud, baby, you make me so_ hard _with how much I want you next.”_ ) that settle in him instead of going over his head to be ignored and passed off.

His hips jerk hard, head thrown back against Dick’s chest, eyes wet with how much it all is, how their scents, the _both_ of them, mix and take up the available brain power he _has_ because they’re both... _aroused_ , their scents bordering on an Alpha’s rut, enticed by his reactions.

(..or by each other, _of course_ each other, they’re _dating,_ dumb ass).

Jay’s hands are iron on his hips, almost pulling him away from Dick to bring him even _closer_ to that working mouth, to drive deeper, to get _more_ , to make his body shake right the fuck _apart_. The noise against his over-sensitized entrance, a low, growling, moan, is finally enough to throw him over the edge.

And he comes _screaming_ , eyes wet, turned away from Dick until his face is forced in his Alpha’s neck so he can breath against skin and the feel of Alpha’s pulse against his mouth.

“That’s it,” Dick coos, “that’s perfect, baby. Oh _God_ , you’re beautiful like this, coming without being touched, just with Jay’s mouth bringing you. That’s exactly what I wanted, my Pretty Bird, my sweet Omega.”

And if Tim weren’t a pile of jelly-muscles and moans, he might take some kind of _offense_. He’s sure as fuck not _sweet_.

But he can’t be bothered to speak, fluttering wet eyes, still twitching, noises getting even _higher_ because Jay isn’t _stopping_ , is still lazily tonguing around his rim, sucking, nuzzling his nose literally in Tim’s _ass_.

Dick is grinning, a smarmy smirk, “told you.”

Jay doesn’t bother raising himself up, “fucking _right_ y’ were, Baby Boy. Fuck, dunno how m’ gonna be able t’ _stop_.”

But the Omega hears _stop_ and his whole body twitches because he still needs, he _needs_ –

“...knot, Jay. I need–I _need_ your _knot_ –”

Dick’s grip tightens slightly, muscles tensing. Jay pauses, his cock trapped in the body suit gives a _fucking painful_ throb. He can finally pull himself away, pull himself _back_ a little, but it doesn’t stop him from wiping the slick from around is face and licking it off, running his agile tongue all over his bare palm.

Dick watches him do it, but there’s a line of tension in Alpha’s face because they don’t _know_ if Tim could really consent like this.

“Timmy,” and Jay knows his tone is _wrecked_ , deep and growly because his inner Alpha is shaking with how much he _wants_ after the Omega said it plain and outright: Tim, _their Timmy_ , _needed_. And all’s he can think about is how much he has to give Tim anything, _anything_ , he needs. “Oh, _baby_...I ain’t never agreed ta knot after gettin’ this far. Always had the go-ahead before, you–you feel me?”

But Tim blinks, pulls just slightly in Dick’s hold, and his face is getting even pinker (and it has _nothing_ to do with the Heat this time, _but he sure as fuck can fake it_ , can’t he?) “I...I know what I’m asking for, Jay. I’m on–on birth control so...so if you–if you _want_ ,” and his brain is clearer now, picking out the recent memory of taking the shot a few days before this mess all started and even the Dick explaining the booster injection before it went into the meat of his thigh.

Well, of course B would send emergency birth control with Dick.

Of fucking _course._

But Tim is with it enough now to see him catch his breath, the blue and black of his eyes even _brighter_ with stark, hungry _want_ , but the noise that comes out of Jason Todd’s _mouth_ is enough to make his slick start flowing again, to make the Omega in him arch his back, pulls his shaky legs up a little so he doesn’t just roll the fuck over and _present_. His back teeth grind against the whines starting up his throat.

“Jesus _fuck_ , Timmy.” An’ he can’t _help_ himself, not when his hands clamp down on those thighs he just had his head between, not when he can smell the slick flowing again, mixed right up with the sweet musk of Baby Bird’s arousal and Heat. “Got y’self all ready f’ Alpha n’ me ta take _care_ a’ ya, yeah? That’s fucking _hot_ , Sugar.”

And those eyes, blue and burning, slide to Dick still holding on, soothing the Omega with one hand running along his tingling and over-sensitive skin. Jay just groans again when Dickie moves enough to palm Timmy’s nice cock, giving him a few nice strokes to get him hard and leaking all over again, causing the Omega to choke on a high-pitched noise, one that goes straight to Jay’s knot, making him _throb_ to be buried deep inside Tim’s tight warmth.

He’s going to leave bruises at this rate, dark purple and black ones because he can’t physically _let go_ , can’t make himself.

But he _can_ lean down where Dick’s big hand is wrapped around that sweet, sensitive skin, he can groan out again right before he laps up the beads of pre-come.

“Dick...Dickie– _Alpha_ ,” he groans, getting a wet swipe over the acrobat’s fingers in the process, “lemme...gotta lemme give ‘em what he _needs_. Gotta lemme be a good Alpha, make my ‘Mega feel nothing but _right_.”

And even if it was someone _other_ than his Jay and Timmy, Dick Grayson could keep his head on straight as the pack’s Alpha. He could think through everything clearly and methodically, could make the absolute best choices for everyone involved without having to compromise. It’s what B ingrained in him since he was a kid, it’s the way he’s always handled any cases with Omegas, Alphas, and Betas–it’s how he’s been able to soothe abused, hurt Omegas without them really _knowing_ he was an Alpha himself. B’s training gave him the control he always _needed_ to make clear-headed choices without compromising his identity.

With any other Alpha or Omega, he could have said “ _nope_. This is a little too close to non-con territory,” and would still be able to fight the other Alpha off without hurting either one of them.

But it’s his lover, his Jaybird, his Little Wing, pleading. It’s his partner, Tim, his Pretty Bird, who has gone so _long_ without the care he needed, care he goddamned _deserved_. And even if all his instincts demand he clench the Omega _tight_ in his hold, bite down to claim, to keep him away from the other Alpha, be a possessive ass, it’s all just a bundle of powerless thoughts in the back of his mind because how could he ever keep the man he loves away from the one that desperately _needs them_ and the protection, the _care_ they have to offer?

(But someday, if Timmy lets them, if Timmy can just let them _keep him_ , he and Jay are going to have a little tussle between them, a show of _strength_ for their Omega. _Dammit_ , the thought makes him so _hard_ , he can’t help but work his hips right against the cleft of Tim’s ass.)

His eyes going from Jay’s to Tim’s, the two of them waiting for his permission, and he licks his lips, “Jay? You didn’t... say _hello_ to me at the door.”

The younger Alpha’s eyes blow wide.

“Want you to watch, Tim,” Dick is already raising a hand to the back of his second’s neck, to pull Jason close enough, to tilt his head just _right_ so Tim can see the whole show.

He lets it be easy, lets Jay’s mouth skim across his own, lets his tongue swipe over. His free hand cups Tim’s throat without having to look, thumb moving over the line of Tim’s jaw, holding the Omega between the two of them so he can see the exchange of pink tongues, can feel the vibrating purr of their chests surrounding him.

Watching helplessly, scenting them together, their hormones simultaneously easing the frantic burning while still making the pressure in his belly _tight_ with want, Tim makes unconscious soft noises deep in his own chest, his scent spiking sharply, filling the room with more slick and arousal. His cock throbs, spurts more pre-come, and he’s ready all over again.

It’s only a small move, just to pull forward in Dick’s grasp, to nuzzle his nose against Jason’s neck and inhale, eyes fluttering while he does.

The sound Jay makes in Dick’s mouth gives the elder Alpha all he needs to _know._ Without moving away from Tim’s back, keeping the Omega securely pinned between them, he frees both hands and works the latches on the Red Hood body suit while deepening their kiss. Jason fucks his tongue into Dickie’s mouth and fumbles to shove the damn thing down his arms, helping to get the slick material away from his heated skin so he can finally give into his instincts and _have_.

(An’ with Dickie, _Alpha_ , watchin’ ‘em, getting ‘em good n’ _ready_ , Jay is more n’ happy ta put on a _show._ )

By some silent agreement, they part long enough for Jay to shove to his feet and tear the rest of his clothes and boots off, baring his skin and scars, his throbbing cock with the slightly swelled Alpha’s knot at the base.

Tim is utterly _mortified_ when the low, ragged whine is coming from _him_ before he can stop it because the last thing to come off is the red briefs, and Tim might just _die_ before he ever gets what he _craves_. He doesn’t struggle against it when Dick catches his wrist again, stops it from going to his mouth to stifle the noises. He’s too far _gone,_ staring as Jason’s hand goes to that thick erection, palming himself, stroking himself slowly while the two _watch_.

“Oh, Sugar,” Jason puts one knees on the bed, his body on display, and continues to stroke himself, “that’s a good ‘Mega, wantin’ his Alpha’s knot. Sight makes y’ mouth _water_ , don’t it?”

A low, ragged moan, followed by a whine on the tail-end is all Tim can manage; he can’t tear his eyes away from the _sight_.

Dick noses against his ear, tongue wet against his throat, marking him again and again. “He’s so beautiful isn’t he, Timmy? Hard and ready to make you feel so _good_. He wants to take care of you, baby, okay?”

“Mmhm,” Jay agrees while his eyes slide down the Omega’s body, leans just slightly so he can smell the slick getting _thicker_ , “lookit ‘cha. Gettin’ so fucking _wet_ f’ me, just like I want, just like I _need_ it.”

“Please,” Tim manages out of the fuzzy headspace, the fire heating his veins all over again, “ _Alpha,_ _please_. Want...want your knot.”

And Dick sees the blue flecked with green shrink as those eyes dilate at the plea of an Omega in Heat begging for his cock, begging to be _filled_.

Jason’s whole body shivers with _want_ , muscles tense to stalk and _take_ , his voice drops unconsciously, deep and dark. “Tell me again, Sugar. Tell y’ Alpha whatcha _need_.”

Tim’s blue, blue eyes and pink face, his straining, quivering body, his trembling thighs, his addictive _scent_ , all of it tell them what’s doing, but Jay needs _more_. Needs t’ hear Timmy _say it_.

With a groan, Tim throws his head to the side, baring his throat. “Fuck me, Alpha. Fuck me and fill me. Please, _please_ , need you to fill me up.”

And _that_ makes the Alpha in question growl low and dangerous, triggering his instincts hard because it’s _Timmy_ , and he doesn’t hesitate, just _moves_.

In a blink, Jason it between his legs again, pulling him further down the bed by the back of his thighs and off Dick’s chest so his back can be pressed hard into the sloppy sheets with the Alpha hovering over him. Tim’s back arches hard when the tip of that impossibly hard cock slides up and down the cleft of his ass, catching on the fluttering entrance, getting himself nice and _wet_.

Tim’s eyes go wide, his thighs clamping down on Jason’s hips, hands scrabbling for something to hold on to when Dick takes a hold of one flailing hand, watching his two packmates (his, _his_ ) take pleasure from one another. His blue eyes are dark with heat and arousal, purring out loud. Tim’s hand clenches tight when Jay leans down to suck a mark into his collar bone, purring louder when his hips move, the head of his cock breaching Tim’s tight, wet entrance.

And he _knows_ Timmy’s only had Dick, only had one Alpha before him, knows how _much_ it all is the first go ‘round. So’s he takes his _time_ easing into that perfect body, letting it open up ta let him _in_.

He watches Tim’s mouth dropping open, eyes fluttering, sees the white-knuckled grip on Dick’s hand. He’s close enough to hear the low whining deep in Timmy’s chest, knows the instincts _want_ so, so much, but the body needs time to adjust.

And Jay’s a man what knows how to be _easy_ , nuzzling further up into Timmy’s neck, talking close to his ear, “s’all right, Sugar. _Fuck_ , you’re so tight, so _good_ , taking me in ya’. Givin’ me a place t’ be. So warm and _wet_ , Timmy. Feels like I’m in _heaven_.”

A shaky arm winds around his back, a long moan spilling out of Tim’s mouth, “oh, _oh fuck,_ I’m–”

Whimpered into his neck and Jay groans, keeps up the easy pace half-way in, holding the shaky thighs in big hands.

When he gives a final thrust, draws back just a little to push his way in, to sheathes himself right up to his _knot_ after so much teasing, Tim comes with it, arching up against him with a hoarse cry.

“Oh my _Gawd_ , baby,” because Timmy came just on Jay’s cock fillin’ him up _full_ , “that’s right. Fuck, you’re so good, so fucking _beautiful_ when you come f’ me. My good ‘Mega.”

The clench around him, the slick making his cock warm and _wetter_ , the spent seed between them while Tim’s cock is still throbbing trapped against them, all of it makes the Alpha growl low, move a hand to slide into that too-long hair and grip.

He takes that mouth hard and deep, his hips shifting just minutely to work Timmy down from his second orgams while Jay gets even more addicted to that taste.

He waits until the grip around his back tightens again, until Tim’s hips shift and his cock stays hard and ready between them, until he’s eating down noises, moans and soft whimpers while their tongues slide together.

He keeps Tim pinned down for the first slow drag almost out, licking into that mouth when the slow push back in makes his Omega cry out, eyes wet with the intensity. His body is so _tight_ even though Dick knotted him (earlier? Yesterday?), and Jay is so fucking _big_ , making him so _full_ right where he needed.

The Alpha licks away the tears when they spill over, nuzzling against him, holding a trembling thigh. The soft purr to soothe the over-sensitive Omega doesn’t stop through the slow, easy rhythm.

And because Jason Todd knows how to take care of what’s _his_ , knows how to read the signs, knows enough about all the backstory they’re eventually gonna _get_ , he keeps up talking (“never... _Sugar-babe,_ never wanna be outta you, fuck how you feel on my _cock,_ ”),  soothing (“ain’t gonna happen again, Timmy...y’ got Alphas now. Y’ got _us_ ta take care a’ ya, just like this, just wanna make’ ya feel _good_ ”), rubbing little circles into taunt muscle until Timmy gets used to the feeling and they can pick-up speed.

Through it, Dick keeps himself _in check_ , eyes dark watching the two of them, his instincts simultaneously _happy_ to see the Omega being taken care of by pack and still wanting to mark every inch of Timmy’s body right alongside Jay so their claim can be obvious to _everyone_. It takes supreme effort to stay on his knees right beside the bed, free hand clenching the sheets _tight_ while he watches and _wants_.

His scent makes a subtle but obvious undertone while he’s a _good_ pack Alpha and doesn’t join them when Tim finally has _enough_ , lets go of his hand, and shoves Jason over to ride him.

The younger Alpha, however, growls low ‘cause _he’s_ taking care a’ things and rolls them again, lifts the Omega to put him on his belly, laying them right at the edge of the bed where Dick can dart in to take Tim’s mouth deep and dirty while Jay covers him, mouthing at the back of Tim’s neck, making him pant in Dick’s mouth.

Keeping the Omega’s legs together, Jason leans up, slides against him again, large hands spanning Tim’s hips to pull him up enough to rut between his cheeks, rubbing his cock through all that _slick_ and _tight_ , watching their Alpha get closer and closer to _feral_ (and _fuck_ is it hot when Dick goes all _pack-Alpha_ ) working their boy’s sweet _mouth_. The noises, the barely-there moans and whines gettin’ louder, music to his fucking _ears_.

But what _gets him_ , what turns everything _up_ –

His pretty ‘Mega pulls away from their Alpha and shoves his face into the sheets, tilts his chin to the side, and almost _screams_ , “Please! _Fucking please, Jay_.” The body is trembling under him with the submission.

And he’s fucking _beautiful_ like this.

Jay doesn’t come, but only by the skin of his fucking _teeth_.

“M’ right here, Sugar,” he slurs, almost drugged on the scent and slick, on Dickie gettin’ off watching an’ waiting, of Timmy’s trembling hips in his hands. His eyes go to Alpha while one hand slides around to palm the base of Timmy’s spine, slowly work it _up_ , closer to what his ‘Mega is tellin’ him.

“He wants it,” is Dick’s inevitable reply, thumb making circles on the soft pulse in Tim’s wrist. “He _needs_ , doesn’t he, Jay?”

“Fuck _yeah_ he does,” and Jay’s the one panting when his palm settles at the base of Timmy’s neck, firm and heavy, taking the Omega’s beautiful submission literally _in his hand_. “Deserves it, Dickie. He’s so _pretty_ , so good. Fightin’ the good fight, taking _care_ a’ us. S’time he gets _his_ , way fucking past _due_.”

He squeezes until Tim’s whole body seems to unlock under him, muscles relaxing, going perfectly _pliant_. He can see the daze settling over those eyes, _knows_ this is what their sweet boy _needs_.

“Gonna give it t’ ya, Sugarbaby. Gonna give ya m’ knot n’ fill y’ up _right_ ,” but his voice is hoarse with _want_.  He slides back into Tim’s tightness, breathing out shaky as he buries himself up to his knot, “need to mark ya, Tim. Need t’ make ya _ours_ , ‘cause this is where ya oughta be, right here where we’s can take care a’ ya.”

And Tim _has to_ because his chest stutters on the sheets, choking on his breath, turning his face away from Dick so they don’t see how wet his eyes are, how he bites down hard enough on his swollen lip to bleed. He doesn’t turn back when Dick grips his hand again or Jay leans over his back to keep him pressed down, to talk in his ear.

“So _good_ f’ me n’ Alpha, Timmy. Fucking _beautiful_. Gonna make y’ come hard now, gonna fuck ya _full_ , yeah?”

But with the knot pressing against his rim, with his eyes spilling over, with his body on _fire_ for the one thing that could possibly kill the agony in his veins, he can’t speak, can’t do anything but push his hips back, keep his face buried in the sheets, and _whine_.

The slow drag almost out has him tensing, the noise dying off in his throat, but Jay fucks back into him, the knot pressing harder, and rolls his hips to give it to him, slow and _hard_ , opening him up a little more with each thrust, and the Alpha, one of _his_ Alphas taking him like this, filling him like he _craves_ , taking _care_ of him–

“All right, Sugar, time t’ come f’ me again. C’mon, baby, yeah, _yeah_ , jus’ like that, gettin’ _tight_ , gettin’ ready t’ take everything I got for ya.”

Jay speeds up, the harsh growl in his chest reverberating down Tim’s spine as the knot presses more and more inside him with the slap of Jay’s hips against his ass and he might almost be breaking Dick’s hand as he held down securely _(safe)_ and fucked within an inch of his _life_.

The knot finally breaches him, locking them together, and Tim _screams_ his cock throbbing out his orgasm in long, full spurts until his balls are empty, and the knot inside him fills him until he can’t even _take it_.

Jay is moaning softly in his ear, panting, thumb making circles on the back of his neck to soothe him while rutting gently against his ass and pumping him _full_.

And no matter how much he tries, how much he shoves his face harder into the mattress, the half-sob comes out while he trembles under the larger Alpha. He doesn’t realize both Alphas freeze, his brain is too busy fuzzing out blissfully.

“Timmy?” Both Alpha say at the same time, Jay turning to meet Dick’s suddenly concerned eyes.

He grips the Omegas hip to roll them to the side until his knot goes down enough to unlock them, already craning over Tim’s shoulder to look at the blood smeared over his mouth and chin, the wet path down his face, and a thrill of fear goes through him.

Even though he’s an asshole, a vigilante, a dirty mother _fucker_ , he ain’t never hurt a ‘Mega. And he sure as shit never wanted to hurt Timmy, not ever like _this_.

Even if he’s the Red Hood more often than not, the whine of distress comes up outta his chest, his nose nuzzling frantically at the side of Tim’s neck. Dick is right there, already back on the bed with them, pressing easy kisses against Jay’s forehead and Tim’s mouth, somehow managing to engulf _both_ of them into an all-encompassing hold.

“Check in, Timmy,” he says in that too-long, sweaty hair while nosing into the side of Jay’s head. The truth, if anyone could simultaneously cuddle without breaking the submission hold? It’s Dick Grayson.

Jay huffs out another whine, startling himself with it since he doesn’t know when his arms went to wrap around the Omega, but he’s holding on to Timmy _tight_ just as much as Dickie and berating himself for being too rough, for possibly hurting their boy–

But an arm flops around until it escape their hold and the fucked-out Omega manages to thread his fingers in the white fluff of hair above Jason’s right eye. His hips twitch, his body clenches _down_ on the knot still locked inside him, giving the younger Alpha a _reason_ to make a whole different type of _noise_.

“‘M floaty,” breathed out against Dick’s jugular, “feels...” but he breathes out, eyes already falling closed, trying to keep _with it_ this time when his brain is blown from the smell and feel of two Alphas in his Perch, ready to help him ( _keep him_ ), so the instincts don’t fight it when he’s full and warm and ( _safe_ ) the Heat is down for the moment, so he can afford to be–

_Out_

When Tim goes slack between them, his whole body going limp while the knot binds them together, Jason hides his face in the back of the Omega’s neck and whines again.

“No, no, Jay,” Dick is right there, pressing easy kisses along Jay’s face and throat, “it’s not that kind of pain, okay? You didn’t hurt him.”

“He was fucking _crying_ , Dick, Jesus _Christ_ –”

“Not because of that, babe, I promise. There is _no_ pain in his scent, but Tim...Tim think he’s a bad Omega, apparently. He thinks he’s somehow... _defective_ or something. Sometimes when I told him he was a good, he’d get...upset like this. It’s not...it wasn’t _you_.”

But Jason Todd inhales this explanation, keeps his face buried in the back of Tim’s neck, angry all over again while being absurdly gentle, hands stroking the Omega’s cooling skin, trying to give comfort even while Tim is completely _out_.

“It ain’t _fine_ ,” Jason snarls low. “None of it is, Dickie.”

“No, it isn’t,” Dick agrees, one hand getting free to scratch lightly at the back of Jay’s neck, the motion already soothing his second. “But it’s okay, it’s going to be _okay_. We’re here now, and we _know_ the real story, so we aren’t going to let him get lost again. I promise.”

The purr is back, Jay’s chest vibrating all of them while the hold around their Omega tightens; Alpha soothes him while the keep Tim between them where they _know_ his body finally seems to be regulating itself and the danger might actually be passing. As they wait for Jay’s knot to go down, while they comfort one another with nuzzles and soft kisses and talk quietly over Tim’s head, making plans for the eventual lucidity when the Heat would finally break, the two absently cover Tim with their gentle touches and scents, bringing up the sheet when his skin cools down a few more degrees.

Even though they both _realize it_ (how _easy_ it is for Tim to be right there between them, how easy it is for them to keep him surrounded, to keep him _safe_ ), neither one says word.

**

He sleep the sleep of the _just_

(And incredibly well-fucked)

The next three days are a lesson in what a normal, non-lethal Heat should be. It doesn’t mean he’s any less _pathetic_ or needy, but it also doesn’t mean Dick and Jay are any less attentive. He manages to take them one right after the other a few times, his body craving their closeness, their scents, their knots, coming undone when the Alphas give in to his needs without any hesitation (and by the end of Day 2, he’s aware enough to know that this? This is not going to end well).

At least he has enough fragments to know both Alphas have cradled him in the bath after a round is done and he’s pleasantly _full_ , being absurdly gentle washing him. Jay gives _no shits_ when he’s aware enough to try pulling away, to cringe when his scars are touched; the Alpha makes a show of it, growling and whining over the marks like they’re fresh and raw, (seriously, it’s all healed, NBD). The first time, Tim comes to with his nose shoved in Jay’s jugular and those hands are insanely _careful_ running the cloth over his chest and down his arms, thumbs rubbing over the one on his upper thigh. His muscles might have tensed, giving him away because the washcloth dropped in the water and those hands clamped down, refusing any kind of escape.

He also knows they’ve both been cooking, the fuzzy-brain giving way enough that he lets himself be hand-fed again, but just by _both_ of them, which is weird in itself. Ultimately, he gives on this too because it’s _nice_ if not slightly humiliating (not that his instincts give _two shits_ because Alpha and Alpha second want to take care of him, want him to eat and be healthy, want him to smell like _pack_ , like _theirs_ ).  

To add another side of embarrassing to the ordeal, he keeps waking up between them with all the _purring_ and-and _nuzzling_ and just--

Alphas, okay? Alphas are apparently intense when it comes to things like, you know, severe hormone deficiency and shit.

It’s apparently a _thing_ they like to do because if one of them takes him, the other is usually _right there_ somewhere, keeping close enough to hold on to him, to touch without hindering the other Alpha working him over. They surround him with their scents and support and comfort, saying these _easy_ things that are really just _lip service_ because the Alphas are taking care of him enough to make sure he doesn’t _die_ and shit.

( _They don’t really mean most of it_ )

It’s hard to remember when Jay is slung over his back, biting into the nape of his neck, murmuring, “ _mine_ ,” while his knot locks, or when Dick has his pinned on his back on top Jay, telling him how _proud_ Alpha is, how much Alpha _wants_ , _needs_ his Omega. And just--

They’re doing all the things good Alphas _should_ do.

That’s _it_.

(And even if his brain believes it, the instincts make him feel like complete _ass_ because he already _knows_ it isn’t going to last.)

**

When he finally wakes up feeling slightly hungover and without the haze of need or the fire in his veins, he’s completely, _totally_ stoked since this is another one for the books where he can check under the _Survived_ category.

So much winning.

Now that his brain is back to 100% functionality, he can _do_ things, like good vigilante things. He can go back to his regularly scheduled life of being bad ass, taking care of his team, occasionally taking care of his Bats, and taking care of shitty bad guys that need to be in prison cells.

And he’s going to get right the fuck on that--

When he can get himself untangled from two dashing vigilantes that have pretty much sandwiched themselves around him.

Now that he’s back in his usual state of fighting and sleuthing, he has enough wherewithal to be completely and unequivocally _humiliated_ about the last thirteen days of pure Omega behavior  because _no, no, bad guys aren’t going to be the ones to kill him, it’s his own fucking **body**_ ( _it’s all just_ weakness _Tim)_. It’s bad enough he’s one of those rare male Omega, it’s ten times worse that now _everyone_ in the Batfamily _knows about it_.

Because now? He’s back to square-fucking- _one_. It’s Robin training all over again, having to prove he _deserves_ the cape, to show the Alphas he isn’t some weak breeder that needs their protection.

Well, how about a whole lot of _nope_ right there. He’s been watching his own back for long enough now that he sure as shit isn’t going to let it break him open _wide_.

And it’s why he doesn’t feel the slightest bit bad about getting himself out from between the Alphas without waking them, snagging his phone and a spare suit before he’s out of the Tower in his modified version of the Javelin to have a little _crime-fighting time_.

He’s proud as hell of himself for pretty much bitch-slapping his instincts, the urge to go back to his own bed and lay between them again so he can be warm and protected , so he can finally, _finally_ , be _pack_.

But he’s pushed that part of himself away for so long now that it doesn’t really register he’s doing it, ignoring it, taking his bottle of suppressants to start up a new cycle, of putting on scent nulling spray to block his Omega sweetness and the hints of Jay and Dick all over his body before the suit goes on.

And while he’s flying, kicking it up a notch, he might be thinking about words growled in the base of his neck, of hands washing him with absurd tenderness, of terrible jokes while he chews, and nuzzles into his face. He might take a moment, _just a moment_ , in between coordinating and analyzing to think about what it _could_ be if he just let himself believe half of the sweet sentiments were, you know, _real_.

**

Jason is smart enough to know when shit is about to get _real_.

Because he ain’t the only one _pissed right the fuck off_ , judging from the black look on Dickie’s face, well--

Some little mother _fucker_ is gonna be in a big ole’ mess of trouble _when they find his ass_. (An’ it ain’t gonna take _long_. Oh no, they’re gonna get _everyone_ in on “Where’s Red?” this goddamned time _so fucking help him_ ).

The note he’d shoved right into his Alpha’s face pretty much said everything they were hopin’ ta avoid:

_Back to 100%. Test results are below._

_Sorry about everything you both had to do, but it won’t happen again, I swear._

_See you at the next family reunion._

_-T_

When Dick turned on his heel and raised up, the Iron Fist blow decimated an end table because Alpha is _fucking pissed_. Angry enough that he’s almost vibrating where he stands. Calm, cool, and collected Dickie is just about to rage it _out_.

Well, he _knows_ how it feels, maybe not as strong ‘cause he ain’t pack Alpha, but he feels the loss of their Omega like a hole in his gut, and they didn’t even fucking _bond_ with him and shit.

So’s now, he’s suiting back up, trying to hack the plane’s nav systems while Dick stalks as N, clenching his fists tight, breathing in deep, trying to calm his instincts down enough when his every motion is pulled toward getting his, _their_ Omega _back_.

( _He can’t have recovered already. He’s still going to be sluggish, exhausted. He won’t feed himself, he won’t take_ care _of himself.)_

B is on the line over the Tower’s intercom, working his own angles since the Bat agrees with them--it’s too soon for Tim’s body to be at 100% (and those results are from last _month_ , asshole, like they ain’t gonna _check_ or some shit?).

He grins sharply when the nav finally gives him the Jack-Fucking- _Pot_.

“Got ‘im,” he crows triumphantly, already fitting on a domino.

Dick’s spine snaps straight, his every movement sharp and precise.

“Yeah?” The eldest Alpha grounds out, moving to look over Jay’s shoulder at the red blip on the holographic map right over their heads.

“Oh yeah, Baby Boy. Whadda ya say we go woo ourselves a sweet little ‘Mega?”

When those blue eyes darken into something half feral, Jason Todd gets a shiver of arousal, getting half-hard even after days of servicing Timmy in his need. He has a moment to contemplate the auto-pilot in the jet still in the Tower’s hangar and just how hard it would be to get Dickie in the right mindset to fuck while they watch some of the footage from the last few days.

He grin only gets wider when he gets the expression of _shit is going to **happen**_ on that face when Dick presses the mask to lower the whiteouts, “I say it’s time to _fly_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been up on Tumblr for a minute (sorry), but the ensuing fuckery that is apparently my life reared its' ugly head. I went through my divorce proceedings and just shit. Shit has been going down since. Ah, I would love feedback if at all possible. Thanks for reading.


	9. Batfam Firefly au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially this was for Day 6: Crossover au for Tim Drake week, but it was just such an interesting thing that it kind of grew out of Tim's realm. He does have a thing with Compainion!Dick tho, so there's that.   
> Mal: Jason  
> Inara: Dick  
> Simon Tam: Tim  
> River Tam: Cass  
> Jayne: Damian  
> Kaylee: Babs  
> Shepherd Book: Bruce  
> Zoe: Roy  
> Wash: Steph

_Take my love, take my land, take me where I cannot stand…_

 

The last lawful stop they made was on Persephone, picked up a Shepherd, a bona fide Companion, a lawman, and a young doctor what smelled of trouble from the moment he came onboard Jason’s gorram ship. ‘Course, that’s not to mention the fact he had a body in cold storage brought along without a word--a sister, apparently, pulled outta one of the Alliance’s special labs. She’s the quiet type, but just fine once you’re sure she ain’t gonna murder you in your sleep. Voices tellin’ her to do so and the like. Just enough crazy to make sure you keep your doors locked.

Damian figured it out. Been giving her plenty of leeway since.

But even with the stragglers what decided to stay and become part of the _crew_ , the plan is and has been since the Independents lost Serenity Valley: keep flying. He needs to keep his Firefly-class transport ship in the skies, to keep outrunning the Alliance, to take what jobs they can muster, and keep moving further out into the ‘Verse.

 

Except when they’re being shot at.

Usually when they’re being shot at, the plan is to shoot back.

Jay has a grip on the pilot's chair while Steph grins calmly and makes a sharp turn, almost throwing all of them to the ground.

“I don’t want to alert anyone,” she drawls out, gripping the controls, making the ship take a sharp dip, narrowly avoiding the blaster fire overhead, “but I think we’re being followed.”

Roy, the corporal who’d followed him from the losing side of the war to a derelict transport ship, is watching their pursuers on the vid screen, seemingly not bothered by his wife’s piloting. “Seems like we’re runnin’ a streak of bad luck, Captain.”

Watching and hanging on as well as can be expected, Jason’s eyes narrow, “well, he’s not the first psycho to hire us, probably not the last. You think that’s a commentary on us?”

“Couldn’t rightly say, Sir,” Roy drawls out with a grin because a’course it do.

“I thought--” Babs, holding on to the doorframe, ready to run back down to the engine room at a moment’s notice, is wide-eyes and someone terrified, “I thought we _liked_ Bart. I mean, we like him a lot...don’t we?”

She ducks down at the sound of Dami’s returning gunfire from Serenity’s turret.

“Seems you can like anyone until money’s involved. Then folk don’t stay too friendly,” his eyes slide over to Doc and his sister by the other control panel, holding on to something solid. Seems to be one of those non-killing type days for Cassandra. Good on them.

“Babs, we’re going to have to pull some evasive maneuvers. I’m going to need you in the engine room. Kill everything once I give you the word.”

Jason’s mouth drops open while Babs is already turning on a hell to take off back down to the belly of the ship.

The Shepherd is rubbing a thumb over his copy of the good book, probably coming in to give them a word about their usual thieving and tomfoolery before the chase started, even though the preacher would ultimately help them as far as he could. You know, being a Shepherd n’ all.

(“ _That ain’t a Shepherd.”_ Jubal Early had once said.)

At this point, it’s more habit for the unconventional man of God who still tried to save the heathens headin’ for eternal damnation and hellfire.

( _“Preacher, don’t the Bible have some pretty specific things to say about killing?”_

_“Quite specific,” the Shepherd replies while loading the handgun with knowledge and precision, “It is, however, fuzzier on the subject of kneecaps.”)_

The honest-to-God registered Companion (the only one really doing legitimate work on the ship as he reminds Jason--often when a heist goes awry) had graced the ship’s proper since there might be a good chance they could die horribly in the next few minutes dependin’ on their pilot’s talent and how well the ship can hold together.

“Let me guess,” Richard Grayson’s blue eyes are narrowed on the screen and the cluster of ships hot on their trail, “you did something to make them angry. I can sympathize, Captain.”

“Hey,” still gripping on to Steph’s seat, Jason has the time to look over his shoulder, affronted, “no sidin’ with the guys shooting at us. Besides, it’s been a long time since Bart shot me. How was I to know he might still have somewhat of a grudge.”

The Companion’s narrow eyes get wide, “he _shot_ you?”

“Perfectly legitimate conflict of interest,” he drawls back as Damian fires again from over their heads, “I got no grudge.”

“What the Captain means is he likes to make things challenging,” Roy slides the palm of his hand over Steph’s shoulder, steady and solid, while she uses every maneuver she’s got. The field of debris coming up is right where she’s headed. The ships following them are larger, less maneuverable.

“Babe,” Roy doesn’t make it a question.

“We’re good,” she insists, steering them closer to the debris field.

“Start praying for us, Preacher,” Damian’s disembodied voice over Serenity’s intercomm is followed by a series of shots and a line of profanity a _mile_ long.

“Preparation for worst case scenario,” the Shepherd replies.

But Cass, who had been staring in her usual daze (except in a _terrifying_ circumstance of Reavers), at the split screen showing the Alliance ships following them and the debris field they’re about to enter, just murmurs dreamily, “they’re going to catch us. They have better propulsion systems.”

Jason’s shakes his head, “be your morbid and creepifying self once we’re outta this mess. Until then, let’s focus on whatever ray of hope we can muster.”

“ _I’m here, Steph. Tell me when we’re on.”_

“Running out of ammo,” Damian cuts in.

“There’s two more coming up from our flanks,” is Roy’s addition to the already terrible situation.

“We’re going to have fun with this,” Steph cackles gleefully, “on my mark, Babs. The rest of you need to hold on to something.”

And they move, Tim securing himself and Cass under a control pannel, Dick gripping the emergency ladder in both hands, Roy holding on right beside Steph’s chair, Shepherd Wayne bracing himself in the open doorway clutching his book, and Jason grips the co-pilot seat with grim determination.

They’ve been up against worse. Survived things that oughta broken ‘em down.

( _The Independents couldn’t come back after the Battle of Serenity Valley_ )

“And _now_!”

As his stomach turns and the ship goes wavery for a while, he looks around at his crew, making sure they’re not flying all willy-nilly at the worst possible time.

They’ve been up against worse, but they’re still gonna keep flying. Those Alliance bastards ain’t gonna take the skies.

**

**

The door to the shuttle opens, and the scent of jasmine wafts out, hitting Doctor Drake in the face, almost making him sneeze.

Cass is with Babs, playing childrens’ game so Tim can answer Richard’s summons.

It isn’t the first time he’s been in the Companion’s shuttle, and each time the calmness, the tranquility of it is a jarring difference from the rest of the ragtag ship.

When he’d been in medical school on one of Core planets, studying under the Alliance in blissful ignorance about the real agenda under the power structure and Cass had still been at home, living safe and sound, surrounded by the stimulation she needed, he’d requested the time of a Companion for a few days in-between the grueling classes and long hours in the lab. His schedule gave him little time for the niceties of companionship, and he craved human contact outside of that life. He needed someone to talk to, someone with a mind and interests apart from his own, someone to seduce him, someone to make him finally _relax_ and _let go_.

Richard is able to do so without even trying.

The last time he’d answered the Companion’s summons, he’d spent who knew how long sitting with his back against the small, overstuffed couch while Richard merely brushed his too-long hair, and spoke in a low, soothing tone about everything and anything, drawing Tim in with the rhythm of his words, the motion of his hands, the grip of those thighs at his sides.

He’d woken up in the Companion’s bed, feeling like he’d slept more in that one night than he had in _years_ , held loosely against Richard’s chest like something unequivocally _valuable_.

Of course, it was utterly _embarrassing_ because while he was still mostly clothed, Richard was...naked, and in bed with him ( _beautiful, flawless, his hands ached to touch_ ).  He’d left without waking the Companion, red-faced with embarrassment and still wondering what would have happened if he stayed.

(But Dick had opened his eyes before the doctor was even out the door)

Would they have…?

_Could he even…?_

He wasn’t a...a _client_ or anything. He wasn’t even in any kind of state to have anything to offer a Companion like Richard, someone so poised and in control.

And anything more was doubtful since everyone on board knew about the obvious tension between Richard and Jason, the arguments and insults a cover for their attraction. He’d found himself in on the betting pool with the rest of the crew.

“There you are, Doctor,” the Companion is absolutely _stunning_ as always, completely at ease with his surrounding, welcoming and warm. The ornate clothing sets off his eyes and the few tasteful pieces of jewelry, the shimmering cloth of the pants accentuate his grace, the fluid movements in every step and gesture, the dark blue setting off his eyes and the highlights of his dark hair. The tunic is sleeveless, his sleek and powerful muscles on display, highlighted with jeweled bands around his biceps.

“Y-Yes,” Tim stutters, still outside the threshold of the shuttle, “you called for me. Is something the matter?”

Richard’s smile is easy, his hand extends out, and a well-shaped brow rises in question.

With his cheeks getting warm, realizing he probably looks utterly _ridiculous_ standing there, Tim bruskly walks in, and the door slides close with a soft sigh.

And as usual, since Richard is a well-versed Companion, he already knows what Tim needs but can’t ever _say_. Without words, he folds the younger man in his arms, pulling him in, grounding the brilliant surgeon turned fugitive with strength and warmth. His emergency satchel is taken from a limp hand without Richard ever really letting him go,

“The crew would be in dire straights without you, Doctor. You should take better care of yourself.” Is an easy observation, said with the right inflection to be a suggestion rather than an admonishment.   
“I’m--” but _fine_ dies in his mouth because Richard looks down at him with that easy smile.

“Come. Sit. I made you tea,” one long arm frees itself to gesture at the ornate pot and cups already waiting for them.

It’s so _hard_ to fight when the Companion maneuvers him like a dance, before he can get his wits together enough to say _thank-you but no_. Being in this place, being oddly cared for and entertained, is a step back into the life he chose to leave behind the moment he violated the law to set in motion all the events the would get his little sister the _hell_ out of that lab.

From there, they couldn’t stop running, trying to stay one step ahead of Cass’s “two by two, hands of blue,” and the rest of the scientists that worked hard to make his sweet, innocent Cass into a programmable killer.

His only real moments of calm are here on Serenity. It’s more home than anywhere has been in the last few years--something not made of lies and clever deceptions.

He’s sipping on the tea, reclining back on the comfortable couch, his eyes already half-mast. Richard facing him on the other side is drinking as well, occasionally serving him more while they talk about easy things, good stories and terrible physicians, commonly known people in the circles of the Alliance.

He can talk about the dredges of that old life without feeling ashamed (and thinks perhaps Richard finds these conversations comforting, like putting on a favored pair of boots).

They move to their usual positions without it being rushed or obvious how the night would end--and Tim is sitting on the floor, between Richard’s knees while the ornate porcelain comb gently works the snarls.

But the Doctor is _brilliant_. Doesn’t take anyone of the Alliance’s ilk to recognize it. So he does notice the trembling that goes through Richard’s legs, the slight redness at his wrists and elbows, all the signs the doctor needed to _know_.

And perhaps now, he understands why the Companion is here on Serenity. Why he calls Tim to his shuttle, why he sits and eats with them, why he soothes Babs and plays with Cass, why he argues with Jason and sympathizes with Roy.

In the morning he may wake up on one of these comfortable couches, or he may yet again wake in Richard’s bed with the Companion only in his skin.

Tim isn’t sure if he’s going to be relieved...or terrified.

**

**

Caton ain’t a place to mess around.

“You did _what_ again?” Because Jason can’t be hearing this.

Damian turns to give him a right nice _sneer_ over one shoulder while the Mudders keeps up with their hem hawing.

“I had to dump the loot,” the tall ex-assassin tells him with obvious disappointment. “It ain’t what they _think_ , Jase.”

Well, that is very plain to see. But that statue in the middle of town? Well, that’s right nice.

“I think we should get the hell out of here before they figure it out,” is Roy’s contribution while some of the Mudders gather their courage to come up and shake hands with the supposed _Hero of Canton_.

“Something tells me we’re not gonna,” Babs hums while they watch a smile start to split Damian’s face as he shakes more hands and listens to the women come up and thank him.

“Every gorram time,” Jason sighs as they watch.

**

**

"If you can't run, you walk, and if you can't walk, you crawl, and if you can't do that... you find someone to carry you."

 

Artemis’s voice plays over while they carry her home to her folks what been pining to hear a word. Roy and Jason carry her casket, a soldier that stood beside them to fight the good fight, and how things all went wrong,

 

He’s burying a good one. Damn shame that.

**

**

“God _damn_ ,” with a hand over the hole in his gut, Jason wonders only idly if this might be it, which just goes to show how well his mind is working. Through all the battles and all the war, even when the brigade (the “Balls and Bayonets” so Bart called ‘em) went down and the Independents lost, when his first brown coat was torn off him by the Alliance, he didn’t give a spit about death.

When it was your time. It was your _time_.

And he worries about the proceeding emergency, stumbling through his ship, dead in the sky after the engine exploded, clutching the part needed to get ‘er moving again, get air and life support, to call everyone to come _back_.

He holds the hole in his side, blood dripping from him.

_“She’ll with you for the rest of your life_.”

”You paid money for this, Sir? On purpose?”

“Ship like this will be with you ‘til the day you die.”

“‘Cause it’s a death trap.”

He stumbles, falls on grating, tries to breathe around the pain and light-headedness trying to overcome his reason.

He forces himself up, forces himself to grip the gorram part, get his feet to the kitchen, through the dining room.

(Steph come in after settin’ the course, lucky Roy saved her a plate since it gets awful hungry in the Black. And the all of them laughing at the Preacher’s stories from the monastery, carrying on like they haven’t got a care in the world. It was Tim’s birthday, the doctor utterly amazed any of them even _knew_ it was his birthday.  The power cut and the ensuing explosion threw them off course and sent Roy headlong into the side of the ship, knocking him hard enough for the Doc to be concerned).

He coughs up a glob of blood, bracing himself against one wall.

( _“Something about her bothers me.”_

_“Well your list of something comes up against a list of recommendations as long as my leg. Tanaka raves about this gal, Renchaws been trying to get her on his crew for a month! We need us a pilot.”_

“ _I understand, Sir. She_ bothers _me._ ”)

In the Med lab, Jase rips his shirt, pale and sweating with the injury. He pulls the syringe out of the right drawer, shoves it into himself and pushes the plunger.

During the convulsions, he remembers the talk with Babs about the life support failing, the coil gone out. He remembers Roy laying out on the gurney like meat on a slab. He remembers Richard looking stricken, gripping his wrist when he made them all leave to save their skins. He remembers the Shepherd, some kind of moral guide in this life, leaving the worn book right in his coat pocket before they’re all gone. He remembers arguing with Steph about her attitude and divert the nav sasts to the transmitter. He remembers how they picked up Damian from another crew with the promise of better pay and better jobs, how they kept him with something a little more than money.

The gorram part won’t go in--

He remembers…

He remembers…

**

The doc is leaning over him when he blinks his eyes open, thinking it’s right nice to be breathing. Preacher is in the corner, some blood on the Good Book, but Jason doesn’t think the man’s God will begrudge him it.

Babs is sitting by his other arm, teary-eyed and already crying needlessly. Richard hovering over her shoulder, fingers clenched over Jason’s hand. Roy is lying on the bunk next to his with Steph between them. He’s yakking, not too hurt then. But Steph...got something in her arm.

“You’re heavily medicated and lost a lot of blood.” Doc fills in while holding a big old needle, not making any of it a mite better. And Cass’s eyes peek out from over his shoulder, the girl standing on her bare toes to reach up high enough.

Shepherd and Damian looking at him from the foot of the cot, and he’s all confused because--

“Thought I ordered you off the ship,” is blurry and slurred.

“I take full responsibility, Sir,” is Roy’s reply from lying down.

He might laugh it off because the pain from the war and the journey here is eased down some, giving him enough to look around at his crew.

“All right,” Tim takes up the yammering, starting to shoo everyone out with one hand while he holds his sister’s in the other, “the Captain needs to rest.”

“Think the Doc’s got a point there,” he’s already half out again, slinking down under, but manages to look up, making them turn back. “Y’all gonna be here when I wake up?”

The smile curving Richard’s face, Tim gripping above his elbow and Cass looking around his arm, Babs eyes tearing up, Steph and Roy just laughing at him, Damian turning away with a “ _tt_ ,” but it’s there even if he don’t give in.

“We’ll be here,” Shepherd pats his ankle without attempting a sermon, putting Jason back down on the cot, blinking slowly at them as they walk out.

_“Real beauty ain’t she? Ship like this will be with you for the rest of your life.”_

_But he sees her off in the distance, the ship will take care of him and his crew. It ain’t much, but it already looks like home._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like this premise, so any comments are totally welcome :D


	10. Batfam AOB Attempt: Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Safety or capabilities.
> 
> Decisions, decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Titan_R_Us attacked my face with this idea, and ah, it's probably the last one of the series, so Part 6 I'll eventually get to. But, this was too good, a trope within a trope, omg. A sex pollen take in the AOB verse and we just tackled it. Some of it's mine and some my writing soulmate's because just THIS.  
> (In case you were wondering, it's NSFW but there is so much cuddling right along with it)

 

There comes a time to run and a time to _stop_.

He’s been ducking and dodging the Bats since the last little _thing_ when Ra’s kidnapped him and tried doing the whole ‘ _oh, you can give me an heir’_ type of thing. As much as he hated it, _hated_ the fact the two Alphas had not only come for him, but had been _infinitely_ gentle about keeping him tucked securely between them, _caring_ for him when he’d been only _slightly_ traumatized. There hadn’t been any sex or mating of the kind during those few days in his Gotham Perch, just being held and coddled while he wanted to shake the _fuck_ apart.

So he didn’t really feel bad about leave another _thanks for that_ note and pretty much peacing out to get a little sweet _revenge_.

Ra’s Cradle was rubble by the time he was done, and the supervillain will def think _twice_ before trying any fuckery like that a second time.

Seriously. Dickbag bad guys and their bullshit.

This time, however, he’d learned a valuable lesson about how to keep the Bats from physically coming for him when he needed _space_ to process.

Keep in communication.

So yeah, no problems taking their calls, talking about cases, _eating_ while they’re listening so they _know_ he isn’t just saying whatever he needs to. He doesn’t change vid feeds or stop them from monitoring the Tower’s security systems, lets them have the nav directions in the Batplane, lets them keep tracers on the Ducatis.

All-in-all, he’s being one _hell_ of a team player like he was starting to be before this whole _male Omega_ thing came out.

He’s starting to _believe_ the whole truth about his second-sex really doesn’t matter.

Luckily for them all, though, is the fact he is what he is, and now the Bats _know it_ because–

“Red Robin, don't panic.” Tim hears over the Batcomm and swears that’s the very worst thing to say, ever. And _really_ , shouldn’t B _know_ that by now? “But I need you to either return to HQ with Agent A or recon with me immediately. We... have a situation.”

“Situation?” Welp, got his attention _now_ , “Walk me through it, B.”

“The Red Hood and Nightwing have been compromised.”

Red’s heart leaps to his throat (because his instincts rise up, _his Alphas are in trouble_ ). “What do you mean compromised? Where are you?”

B sighs heavy over the com, “WE Pharmaceuticals close to the Warehouse District, Poison Ivy has apparently been working to develop a new compound to target Alpha’s...she’s been successful.”

“En route. So? This isn’t the first time she’s tried to use an Alpha’s Rut to her advantage.” Criminals like Ivy give Omegas a bad name. A very bad name. She works the stereotype to her advantage, being alluring, needy and wanted, yet at the same time pinning down ways to enslave Alphas for work...or plant food. “And those two have been exposed to Omega pheromones for _years_ , wouldn’t a normal dose of the anti-venom work?”

This time, B hesitates. That small pause gives Red an indication he’s not going to like what comes next, not at _all_. “I already tried that. It’s the first time, Ivy’s weapon focuses on instincts rather than hormones, they’re not exactly in the Rut. Because of _that_ , the anti-venom is less effective, and it seems they’re too deep, and–”

The sound of breaking glass echoes off the walls, loud and sharp over the comm even while Red swings, pushing his body to _get the fuck there_. The ensuing shout _isn’t_ B, but the noise still sends a shiver down his spine.

“–I can’t get them to stop fighting. They’re like two dogs at each other’s throats for a scrap of meat.”

That? Is very _not good_. “What? Why?”

But, B lays it out for him, “well, there’s a reason why 75% of me wants you to turn around and hide.”

Oh.

_Oh._

He _gets it_. Red’s the scrap of meat, and the Alphas are going to tear each other apart. For the rights to _him_.

Dick is the Pack Alpha and Jason is his _second_. They’re both powerful, skilled, and balls deep in the instinct to forget they’re, you know, _boyfriends_. He suddenly sees how this could go if he stops right where he is and turns back: B wouldn’t be able to get them calmed down enough with sedatives to make the specialized antidote, the two Alphas would probably do irreparable damages to each other, could take the final step and _kill_ –

Fuck.

Regardless of how his heart suddenly starts to pick-up while he somersaults in mid-air, he fires the next shot, almost to B’s location. “Well, I’m almost there. So... what did the other 25% of you want to do?”

“The best plan I’ve got is to get them to focus on you instead of ripping each other apart.” B mutters.

And he sees the tension in the Caped Crusader peek over the rise when he crests the jump, lands it in front of the building where the fight with Ivy took place and the two Alphas are still inside. B’s shadow comes up beside him, and in a gloved hand is something Red never thought someone like _Batman_ would have on hand. Ever.

“You want me to dress…” Red hisses, _“...like a prostitute?”_  

B freezes with the usual _Bat-stillness_ and the worst thing is?

_He gets it._

The collar his mentor is holding is wide and made of hard leather meant to cover from the base of his jaw to his collarbones. The purpose of the thing is to prevent any mating bites, any bonds, from “accidently” forming. In their society, it’s common to see prostitutes wearing them on the street to dissuade against any...too forward clients who wanted more more than they were paying for. Collars like these give sex workers control no matter their gender, because their bodies are one thing, but a mating bond is another.

Red would do anything to light the damn thing _on fire_.

Wearing it would hinder him substantially. With the design, he wouldn’t be able to turn his head, would have blind spots no matter what.

Safety or capabilities.

Decisions, decisions.

“You don’t–” B sighs, “ _Tim_ , you don’t have to. It’s only necessary if _you_ find it necessary. If not, I won’t mention it again.”   

Just up ahead, Red can hear them. The snarls, loud growls, and a low whine when a hit lands. The fight is getting worse, and these two are idiots in love. If they intend to _stay_ that way and not try to kill each other, then Red has to do something.

They helped him through his Heat, stopped the Heat-Mania in its tracks and even though they’ve been driving him crazy, spouting words they can’t possibly mean, trying to corner him, court him, scare the absolute _fuck_ out of him, it all fades at the thought of them hurting each other.

He takes the damn collar.

“I just need enough time to work out a new formula for those two,” B tries to placate, both hands up, palms out, “I just need a distraction. Can you do that for me? For them?”

The younger vigilante chews his lip, putting the collar on with deft, precise movements. Flip, it’s memory foam on the inside as the seam of the collar shuts, locks, with a click. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.” He can bait and run like his life depends on it. He basically has a P.H.D in it already.

The cowl is expressionless, but there’s a note of uncertainty in B’s voice. “I know they’ve been after you since they got you through the worst of your Heat. But, Tim, I don’t want you to think that I’ve asked you here because you’re an Omega. I don’t care about that, I never did. I care about you and your choices–that has never changed.”

And _yes B_ , he understands that _now_.

“Yeah, I’m pretty much the best man for the job though. I don’t see either of them following Dami through the streets of Gotham.” He sucks in a breath, “It’s fine, B,” _no, it isn’t_ , “I’m going to keep them on their toes and you are going to get me an antidote as fast as you can.”

“Understood,” a grapple already in hand, the Beta, the leader of their Pack, turns to him, “Tim, the the collar is locked. Do you want the code?”

And Red thinks about, really _thinks_. He looks at the opening of the building where the fighting is turning up a notch and then back to his former mentor. “No. If they catch me, their feral instinct might be to ‘persuade’ me to open the collar myself. I don’t trust that I wouldn't be compromised either. Keep the code, tell me it after this is over…”

B nods, rests a hand on Red’s shoulder and squeezes. “I’ll keep you updated. Now show them how fast a Robin can fly.”  

_Well tweet, tweet motherfucker._

_**_

The Wallstone is one of those perfect hideouts because it’s usually cloaked in shadows. Since the fucking collar is doing him no favors in this little game of cat-and-mouse, he’s got to keep it on the up-and-up, use every trick in his arsenal to keep them guess, to keep them running on the wrong sides, taking the wrong avenues.

He rolls pellets around under his tunic, throwing his Omega scent around on rooftops, sure it’ll dissipate before anyone else catches wind of it.

And it works.

For a while.

But the heat is building with every narrow miss, every almost grab, every snarled, growled fit of anger at his evasion. As much as the instinct in them _craves_ to chase that which they want, it’s just as much a part of him to want to _run_.

So he’s flying over Gotham, throwing out the next zip line in desperation as fast as he can. He’s a target, a beckon because for this to _work_ –

He has no scent blockers.

So he has to be _smart_ enough to keep just ahead of them, just ahead of the next attempt, the next fight, the next body shoving against him. He’s managed to get a good one on N, hitting a pressure point to immobilize the arm, but in his feral state, Nightwing still came for him.

His leap almost got him caught, N throwing himself right after Red’s plunge while Hood was still recovering from the gas pellets and growl dangerously low.

The big, familiar hands on him ankle, pulling him in mid-air, arm arm around him even while he scrabbled for the last grapple in his belt, fighting the hold. He got the impression of teeth against his ear before the damn thing fired and the momentum tore him away. He got enough of a glance back to watch N seamless catch himself on a fire escape and arch that powerful body _up_ to start back after him.

From there, he’d been running over rooftops, having to wait while the grapple reloaded and gave him some distance.

Not enough to keep his heart from pounding, his chest from heaving, his legs from burning. He finally had to ditch the cowl and cape, slapping a domino haphazardly to try and take away anything _else_ that would impede him in this. The damn collar wouldn’t let him move his head enough to keep a watch, the thing locked _tight_.

And it’s too bad that damn thing is going to be his downfall.

Because he doesn’t see the Alphas coming at him from his blind spot, blood pounding in his ears while he runs, body almost arched for a leap to the next roof while the grapples takes it’s _sweet damn time_.

He doesn’t get the chance to use it.

Hood hits him right out, taking him out of mid-air completely, locking both arms around him to pin his arms so he can’t strike out.

When he takes the Alpha’s full weight on the landing, the air is knocked out of him, Hood already shoving both knees between his to plant his weight, to keep Red pinned down.

He swivels himself up, thrusts his hips against the hard erection already pressing against him through Hood’s body suit.

He only manages to get them turned over so he’s on top with those arms locking him in place, keeping him down against that chest.

N appears out of nowhere, landing on his back to sandwich him between them, to keep him right where they _want him_.

“ _Fuck!”_ he manages, breathless and panting from the run, his adrenaline still pumping as he uselessly fights to break free.

The growl in his ear gets more rough, _angry_ , and he gets _why_ when he feels something push against the collar around his throat.

N can’t scent himself, can’t scent _pack_ with the collar on, and that’s just going to make things a _hell_ of a lot worse.

“Shit,” Red groans out when Hood also tries to nudge the collar, going as far as scraping teeth across it. The problem is neither he or B apparently calculated what the Alphas’ reactions would be when they couldn’t scent themselves on who they considered _theirs_.

What is _going_ to happen, however, is punctuated with gloved hands moving up his legs while the growls in his ear turn to purrs, deep and vibrating against him while he kicks uselessly and bucks his hips trying to get enough leverage to flip, trying to get just _one_ hand free.

But regardless of how he thrashes, he’s not going anywhere, not against two seasoned vigilantes riding their instincts with the closest Omega _(their Omega)_ already smushed between them.

His gauntlet spits out a smoke pellet he flicks from the fingers on his right hand, but even with whatever Ivy drugged them with, the Alphas are still vigilantes.

N grips Hood’s hips and rolls them away from the rising smoke, kicking out at the pellet. His gauntlets are deactivated by the Alpha behind him while Hood holds on, the growling behind the synths strange and those whiteout right against his own.

“Lemme go, Jay,” he snarls out, picking up the struggles again, but the shift in wind, the tightening arms around his body puts him right in the way of Hood’s scent, of _Alpha_ and _safe_. He can try to fight it, but he’s already submitted to them ( _more than once dumbass_ ), and the feel of their bodies is already affecting him, already getting into his own instincts regardless of shit like suppressants and _willpower_.

( _Don’t be stupid, you want them just as much as the Omega does._ True. Rude but true.)

What _gets him_ though, what makes him pause–

Nightwing leans over him, noses right behind his ear at the soft skin just above the safety collar, and the slow slide of tongue, the scent marking, the Alpha telling him _again_ that he is _Pack_ makes a hard shudder work its way up his spine, makes his body start to ease.

( _Can’t mate me like this, the worst they can do is fuck me, and well, **been there** , **done that**_ ). But this would be the first time without the hormones riding them, making him fuzzy, making him lose focus. He would be 100% clear and all there.

The noise from Red’s chest is harsh and guttural, a moan when he should _know better than this_ because with it, Hood’s hips jerk up, working himself against the Omega’s armored jock.

A gloved hand is between his legs, pulling and ripping the tights, ripping into the undersuit until N can get a hand around him, can purr against his back and stroke him into hardness.

“Oh...oh fuck...no, no, not out here, it’s too–it’s too dangerous. _Dick_ , we can’t...oh _God_ , we can’t do this out here,” but the more he gets worked, the more he pants, the harder he gets. Since he’s stopped fighting so hard, has to give _in_ a little, his nose is pressed in Hood’s neck so the scents can surround him, the _want_ in the air can make him start to get–

_Slick_.

The Alpha under him rumbles, nothing intelligible, not since they’re so far into their inner Alphas, growls and rumbles, but Red’s face is laying against that _spot_ when all he can smell is Alpha arousal and _musk_.  He has no idea N’s other hand fumbles for the helmet, deactivates the security and tosses it away. He only knows one arm moves from the restraining hold so his mouth can be taken, his soft noises eaten down by the Alpha below that smells so _fucking good_.

N just keeps working him, being stupidly gentle about the gloved finger breaching him, starting to open him _up_.

(And when he realizes it’s Nightwing’s fingerstripes inside him _first_ , he gets so fucking _wet_ it’s embarrassing. Seriously.)

But at least they’ve finally seemed to calm down against each other, have seemed to be in some kind of agreement to work together to make him _insane_.

Hood holds all of them while N lays across his back, the two Alphas pausing in their ministrations only long enough to nip and lip and suck as each other’s mouths and throats before going back to him.

His thighs are trembling, aching, his arms still lightly pinned even if he isn’t struggling, can barely think of anything other than _this_ and how good it would feel to have one of them inside him, taking him, keeping him.

The Heat-Mania episode apparently did a number on his libido because he’s been _thinking_ about being with them again like this...and now _here they are_.

Jason keeps peppering his face and jaw with little licks, kisses until that’s not enough to satisfy him. With a grunt, he yanks Tim up across his chest until Tim’s hands slam right above the vigilante's head to keep balance. Then Jason digs his nails right under the top of the body armor and rips, tears and Tim is really getting sick here of people treating his suit _like tissue paper thanks._ The remains of it fall around them and Tim did not sign up for full nudity on the roof tonight. The sound of traffic is loud right below the curve of the building’s side. If Tim strains his ears, he can almost hear the chatter, the tough accent on the street as passersbys make their way home. There’s a few buildings higher boxing theirs in, where the windows reflect the city lights perfectly. But what if one person high above them just happened to look down? Would they be seen? Or they just catch glimpses of shadowy lumps in the dark as Dick and Jason force him to melt?

Jay’s hands span wide over his ribs to drag his torso to his hot mouth. A high whine is torn from lips as the vigilante hungrily worships every scar he can reach with his tongue. He keeps Tim trapped even with the use of his arms back and takes his time to suck marks into his skin, his breath hot over his nipples.

Dick hasn’t let up at all.

It’s two fingers now, the texture of the gloves scraping over his inner walls driving Tim mad. The Alpha isn’t searching, but knowingly makes passes closer to where Tim needs. Dick spreads his fingers wide, scissoring them and Tim can’t fucking breathe, only moan helplessly pinned between them. The only other addition is how Dick traces his spine in sharp nips and bites, which pushes Tim harder into Jason’s mouth.  

_He is going to die._

Jason uses the flat of his tongue over the nipple hanging tantalizing to the left, growls in approval with how that pretty chest heaves all nice, swollen and red. The buzz of the poison going strong as his instincts hit his mind with, ‘ _Need, safe….mine,’_ over and over like a drum.

And Tim can’t help the _noise_ that comes out of him, from deep down in the pit of his belly, something stupidly _needy_ while his fists clench and his back arches.

“I can’t–I _can’t_ ,” is hoarse, panted against Jason’s _mouth_.

But Alpha, as he should have known, is going to take care of him.

Dick is the one that pushes him down just by folding over, blanketing him as fingers pull out of his drenched opening. The Nightwing suit is already shoved down to the top of the Alpha’s thighs, and _God_ , that hard, throbbing cock is sliding through his slick, getting wet, getting _ready_ for him. Dick’s bare chest against his exposed back, Jason mouthing at him, purring, gripping him to keep him still (as if that’s even an _issue_ at this point).

“Fuck me,” he manages, shoving his hips out more, “ _fuck me or I’m taking off again._ ”

Alpha snarls behind his ear, and Tim can hear it as plainly as if Dick had said the actual words, “the _hell_ you are, Timmy.”

He is and _isn’t_ prepared for being breached by the massive cock.

Now that he’s not riding the Heat train, he feels everything without the haze of need and the clench of his body demanding to be filled. Now he gets to have the full experience, his mouth dropping open and eyes falling half-mast with how _much_ it is, how fucking _good_ it feels with every small thrust of those hips to get _deeper_ , to be completely inside.

“Oh...Oh my _God_ ,” and he has no idea when he’d moved to grip Jason’s shoulders, when the Red Hood began nuzzling against his wet face, when he started making whimpering sounds, when his thighs started to shake too much to hold his weight and the two Alphas had to keep his hips up in the air. “Oh fuck, _fuck_. Dick, _Alpha!_ ”

Even though it isn’t rushed or hurried (and it really _should be_ because of things like venom and terrible bad guy _tropes_ ), the intensity is overwhelming, and as if the Alphas _know_ , a gloved hand slides over his mouth so he can scream uninhibited without giving them away.

And _yeah_ , he does.

Slick is dripping down his thighs and his eyes are fluttering over Dick’s hand while Jay kisses his forehead and rumbles soothingly below him ( _“Yeah, baby, just’ like that. Let Alpha make ya feel good.”_ ).

The noises are made into a gloved hand or Jay’s mouth while Dick’s fluid, rolling rhythm goes on and on, possessive noises made against him while he’s taken, filled up so _full_ over and over.

The pressure in his belly is so _tight_ with it, just waiting to explode, making his hard cock _throb_ and leak.

And just when the swelling knot pushes harder, pushes faster, when his racing heart gives a heavy beat in his chest, when he wants it just because _goddammit_ he _does_ , Dick pulls easily, wetly _out_.

The feeling of bereft, aching _loss_ makes him want to curl up in a ball, hitting him in the _other_ instincts so he thrashes a little, _fights_ with Dick’s hand over his mouth and his eyes fucking _wet_ because he was SO. Fucking. _Close_.

But the fumbling at the Red Hood bodysuit is evidence his brain can’t compute until Dick’s gloved hands push his hips down just enough–

For Jason’s hips to shove _up_ , for the younger Alpha to fuck his bare cock up into the wet, stretched entrance, filling him full on the first desperate thrust.

The hold on his mouth tightens when he cries out in surprise and a sweet burst of pleasure racing down his spine. Jay somehow braces perfectly between their entangled legs, fucking up into him while Dick purrs and holds him still for it.

The hard, jarring thrusts are a _now for something completely different_ moment that has his fists literally ripping the Red Hood body suit, his cock leaking all over it anyway.

And he is completely _useless_ while the two take turns gripping his hips to hold him in the right position, changing out every few thrusts so they can both _take_.

All he can do is let them keep him quiet, let them hold him, let them move him how they need, and try to keep some of his wits about him in case B might have some _good news_.

But it’s a crazy thing, he thinks while he’s gripping Dick’s wrist, keeping that gloved hand pressed over his mouth so he can yell into it when a hard thrust right against his _spot_ makes him see stars, how _incredible_ it is to be taken like this, to be fucking _needed_ , wanted, to have both Alphas _desperate_ for him. When it’s Jay pushing back inside, the younger Alpha arching and whining when he gets what he needs, Tim’s eyes flutter with it and he lets himself be had.

The rolling motion puts Dick under the pile of them and Jason on top, kneeling between Tim’s thighs, throws him off just long enough to let go of his hold on the bodysuit, and he scrambles to shift his grip to Dick’s hips under his hands instead.

He can feel the vibrations of purring, smell how _close_ the two Alphas are, feel the hard shove of their swelling knots against his rim, even if they refuse to go _that_ extra mile when he’s not in Heat ( _thank God they’re being **good** , there’s no way he can take a knot right now anyway_), so he knows none of them can realistically stand much _more_.

But apparently, he’s _wrong_. So very, very wrong.

The two of them keep _going_ , keep trading out, keep taking him, keep working him, keep touching him and each other, stuttering to a stop right when he’s almost ready to come. They get him closer and closer to the edge just to leave him when he’s right about to reach the pinnacle, forcing him and themselves to start again.

And again.

And again.

He’s a weak, useless _mess_ , and dawn is quickly approaching, just the barest hint of light starting to appear over the horizon.

“P-Please,” he finally moans hoarsely, wetly against Dick’s palm, “you’re going to–you’re going to kill me.”

But the two of them _perk_ , the hard, fast thrusting inside him pauses, almost _stops_ completely, and Jay is looking down at him with his head cocked slightly to the side in question while Dick slides his free hand over Tim’s abdomen, making soothing circles.

There’s growls and animalistic noises he can’t decipher while his head flops back as much as the collar will allow, cushioned on Dick’s shoulder.

(If he gets blue balls, these two are getting their asses kicked, so _fucking help him_ ).

He groans quietly when Jay slides out and Dick wiggles his hips enough to line them up again. Two sets of gloved hands hold his hips in the right place, the right elevation for the pack Alpha to have enough room to slam _home_.

He doesn’t have enough air to _scream_ , not when Dick starts pistoning in him, face pressed at the side of his head, snarling, panting, growling low enough to make his _teeth_ ache. It’s insane and wild, Dick’s nature unleashed while he fucks without holding _back_.

(Like he’s claiming– _don’t go there, don’t think of that shit right now_ )

His hands goes to his own throbbing erection, trying to palm himself so he can finally, _finally_ finish–

When Jason refuses him, grips his wrists to hold him away, making him keen in physical fucking _pain,_ Dick’s hand slaps over his mouth again and his eyes spill over because it’s all too much, _too much to stand_.

The howl splitting the early morning is the pack Alpha coming _deep_ inside him, the knot throbbing, pressed tight against the opening of his body but not breaching him to lock them together. It’s still long, terrible moments of being filled so _full_ while his body aches for release and he’s held down against it, all trembling muscles and low, pained whines against the hand clamped down over his mouth.

He’s a useless pile of jelly-muscle by the time Dick finally pulls out of him, face wet and his scent bordering on _pain_ when Jay purrs low and soothing, allowing Dick to hold his wrists, pull them over his head so he’s stretched out on top the pack Alpha and his thighs are shoved up, shoved back.

Jay is just as serious about fucking into him like it might be his last moment, leaning over his body to stare him down while the Alpha’s hips work hard and fast against him. But the younger Alpha is obviously planning everything because their bodies are close, but not close enough for to give Tim’s hard, throbbing erection any _kind_ of stimulation.

And his eyes flutter with the sharp and fast hits to his spot, to the scents they're both giving off, to the Kevlar and grime of Gotham, to the hold on his body, and the possessive noises he can interpret just _fine_.

When it’s Jason’s turn, when the Alpha is panting and growling, arching his back to lean low over the Omega, when those _eyes_ stare into his wet ones, the angle changes drastically, hitting right over his spot, speeding up so Jason can reach his peak.

But the change makes Tim twitch and jerk, making those big hand on his thighs clamp down harder, forcing to hold him still and take what the Alpha is giving.

Through the haze, his body winding, the painful edge of pleasure he’s riding, Tim is openly whining, crying, muscles twitching uselessly.

Both Alphas lean into him, one on either side of his jaw, nip and lick at him, growl to him, purr to him, call to his inner Omega, lick at him to get their scent on his body however they possibly _can_ around the collar they both seem to _hate_. Bruises, and angry hickeys outline the damn thing.

Alpha holds his through it, through the hard, hard pounding as his second chasing his end; the grip around his wrists finally releases, the gloved hand with those _fingerstrips_ wrapping around him just right, just tight enough, working him in time to the Alpha ready to spill into his body.

He screams when he finally comes all over Dick’s fist at the last hard thrust to his spot, at Jay finally _exploding_ inside him, at the second Alpha howling his pleasure and following their Alpha’s example by also marking the Omega’s body with his scent and come as being _owned_ , as being _pack_.

Jay braces both hand to keep from crushing Tim and Dick when he falls forward, sliding thickly, wetly out.

Tim, however weak he might _be_ , shoves the Alpha off him, hits pressure points in the arm holding him down so he can literally roll _off_ Dick’s body and scramble a few feet away to get himself _together_.

He snatches his cape from where one of the Alphas must have picked it up during the run, covers himself with it and flops over on the roof of the Wallstone, blearily watching the light get more and more ominous from behind his whiteouts.

There’s no way he can stay here, no way he can stand, and no word from B on how the antidote is coming along.

_Fuck_.

He manages to growls out, low and angry when he feels the two coming closer, crawling toward him on their knees with the subvocal communications, but that’s about as far as he can get right about now.

But, the two aren’t going to tear each other up ( _you’re welcome, B_ ) and he is going to just be _fine_ since, you know, pack Omegas _do_ this kind of shit for Alphas, not like it really _means_ anything.

_Right?_

Just an O helping out the A’s.

He growls out a second warning when he feels them start to move closer again, when the scent of confusion wafts over, tinged in their musk. He gets a hold of the utility belt, but no grapple. He’d have to run over the rooftops to get to his Gotham Perch twelve blocks away, and huffs an annoyed sigh to himself. (It’s fine, isn’t it? It always has to be. He always has to be _fine_.)

But for the next five minutes, until it’s _get moving or get caught_ , he’s letting himself slump over, to pant and try to recover, try to get his body to be anything other than _sated_.

And cue the _whines_.

“Fuck. Both. Of. You,” he rasps out, clutching his cape tighter in a shaking fist. “ _Seriously_.”

But he hears Dick scent the air deeply, trying to take in his scent, and makes a move to roll to his knees.

His first attempt at gravity is just totally not happening, not light-headed as he is and fucked beyond all imaginable reason. Those two _literally_ fucked him all night to put their marks.

It’s amazing he can even–

His knees give out unsurprisingly before he gets two steps away, and he whines low in utter fucking _frustration_ , forehead pressed against the dirty rooftop. Closing his eyes and breathing doesn’t make the situation any better.

It actually gets progressively worse when the pack Alpha has apparently had enough and picks him up even when he weakly thrashes.

The firing grapple is a loud bang when Gotham is waking up to begin the day, and some of the lucky civilians might catch a glimpse of the swinging vigilantes blurred in flight. Nightwing is carrying a lump tightly against his body, and it might be that one of them was injured, in need of care, but the few civilians that catch the sight pass it off as a late if not successful night.

**

He has no idea how long he’s been out or if B managed to synthesize the antidote for the crazy pseudo-Rut inducing weapon. In fact, he’s not even sure where he is or if he can _move_ more than his eyebrows because the strain in his muscles is _real_.

His belly is still pleasantly _full_ , a fact that makes him come to _immediate_ awareness because _Holy shit–!_

The collar is still on (oh, oh _goody_ ) and he’s completely naked wedged between the two sleeping Alpha males who have apparently come to some sort of agreement about keeping him as close as possible.

(Reads as: not allowing him to _escape_ )

He sighs, closing his eyes for a second to re-orient. First thing is first: get the fuck out of this ( _Dick’s, it smells too much like Dick_ ) bed, get to his phone, get some _clothes_ , and maybe get the _fuck out–_

Dark blue eyes pop open in front of him, the pack Alpha awake the instant something about the Omega’s scent in front of him changed, going more neutral than perfectly, pleasantly sweet.

“Please tell me the toxin wore off,” Tim deadpans because well, _really_.

But the Alpha leans in to nuzzle at his nose, purring gently already, and a big hand moves from being draped over his hip to kneading the sore muscle in his legs.

He sighs tiredly and nuzzles back a little, “dammit.”

The rough little growl from deep in Dick’s chest is pretty much, “ _I know, Timmy, but we’ll deal with it together.”_

He doesn’t _completely_ fall into their spell when the hand from behind him starts on the aching muscles in his back, working, rough hands that feel better than he will admit on pain of death. The nose nuzzling right under the collar is almost perfect to the instincts buried under layers of Tim Drake, CEO and Vigilante.

“I can’t have sex,” he comes out with it bluntly, “I’m _sore_. Some douche bag Alphas I know wrecked my _ass_.”

Cue more nuzzling, add some whimpers of apology because now they feel bad.

Well, _good_.

“Let me up. I need coffee before I can start dealing with you two right now.”

Jason huffs a growl at his back, the Alpha’s long, lean body curving in to bracket him.

“ _No,_ Jay. I don’t need to stay _here_ , I need to touch base with Bruce and work my own cases while you two are still under the effects–”

Dick growls again, and now both hands are kneading his sore muscles, making the knots finally ease with added pressure and finesse.

Jason is right there with his pack Alpha, kneading the muscles in his back more aggressively while his scent turns lighter, not so heavy, the indications of _happy Alpha_.

“Dammit,” he sighs out on a groan as it starts to feel a little better, “dammit.”

**

Unfortunately, the Detective is effectively trapped since, well, leaving the two on their own while immersed in their inner Alpha senses is just a recipe for utter fucking _disaster_.

They can’t patrol like this because who _knows_ what they would do to the criminal element in Gotham. Luckily, Babs helps coordinate some substitutes while they’re–um, _busy_.

(He literally had to hold the phone away from his ear while she _died_. Laughing is rude Babs, learn some manners. Dick paused in nuzzling him to tilt his head sideways in question for less than a second before he went _right back to it_. And yes, he’d been sitting on Dick’s fucking _lap_ at the time.)

It’s bad enough that he’s subject to numerous communal baths and being hand-fed when he is _one-hundred- **thousand** percent _ capable of feeding himself, but when those two are completely, totally _focused_ on him, being incredibly, impossibly _gentle_ when they (this isn’t fucking, it’s...it’s making lo–) have _sex_ with him is enough to get him on the phone with B, demanding to know the progress and the formula so he can work the damn antidote on his own.

“Tim, it’s completely _normal_ ,” Bruce tries to placate, “they’re Alpha males that have missed out on caring for an Omega in their pack. Of course they’re going to try to make up for lost time.”

And oh, _oh_ , “you _knew_ this might happen!”

“I suspected it. Pack Alphas have an instinctual need to care for their people, Tim. You’ve… been out of the loop for a while. With the toxin in their bodies, it’s going to drive that instinct a little bit harder with you.”

_“Goddammit–”_

“You are keeping them out of trouble, which is a very good thing. Just remember that.”

“Bruce, do you even _know_ how many baths I’ve had today?!”

“I’m sure it’s not going to surprise me. I have the compound broken down, so not long now. Hang in there for me.”

“I hate you. Just for the record.”

“I’m aware, but let them take care of you for once. Is it really that bad, Tim? Be honest with me.”

He hangs up the phone instead and is immediately picked up by Jason to be carried to the kitchen table for another round of _feed the impoverished Omega_.

It’s a terrible waste of time when he should be with his team, should be out on the streets, should be vigilante-ing it _up_.

(But the stupid, weak part buried deep inside him is taking it all in and enjoying every _second_.)

**

The haze lightens up enough that he can realistically start taking in his current surroundings.

The water laps lazily up, scents kicking in before other senses and he doesn’t have to venture a _guess_.

The soft purring behind his ear is pretty much an indicator. The damn collar is still on, still makes shit like being fucked unconscious that much more uncomfortable for everyone. Really. B has the best and worst ideas.

He gives a vague whine because his throat is too sore for speech, not after screaming for most of the last two days. The warm body behind him shifts to accommodate him, cradle him, pet him, soothe him as best he can.

Jason, however, is still stuck in the venom, just purring against his back, not even trying for a ‘ _sorry ‘bout that, Timmers_.’ He might be more gentle than usual, being easy at washing the Omega, rubbing out sore muscles, keeping him pressed up _tight_ (reads as: not letting him escape) when he might find some motivation to get himself out of the bathtub.

His fingers are pruny at this stage and _really_ , he needs to be doing at least some work on his own cases since they’ve been at this too long as is.

At this juncture, he knows Dick’s apartment better than anyone, from the wallpaper to the cupboard that’s packed with cereal boxes (and it’s a crazy thing how they carried him around here like he was made of glass, ready to break, like he was something utterly _precious_ – fucking instincts, _dammit_ ) since he’s pretty much cased the _entire place_ , trying to find some way to _escape_.

B hasn’t been any more helpful, giving him ‘still working the formula. The wrong combination could make it _worse_.’ text. Even _that_ takes some maneuvering since the two Alphas take his phone often enough when the venom hits them again, accelerating their hormone levels, and… and make them need to mate.

Again.

And again.

And (God help him) again.

But, it isn’t just about being a _Bat_ that is keeping him from seriously trying to _get the hell away_. It isn’t about apologize for the little duck-and-run act he’s been pulling with them since the big secret of his second-sex came out. It isn’t even about owning himself and what he _is_ , has always been, has suppressed for as long as he can realistically remember (even though being able to be the inner Omega, the be able to _give in_ and be taken...taken _care of_ , wanted like this, _wanted for who and what he is_ , is something he can’t even _keep_ because he’ll get addicted, it’s just _too good_ ).

It’s all about making sure these two idiots, the Alphas he’s been in love with for practically _forever_ , the ones that have been pulling him _back_ to the family, to Gotham, to the _pack_ , aren’t going to have a terrible reaction, aren’t going to get hurt, _are_ going to recover. It’s as ingrained in him as the Robin-instincts to fight and never give up, never give _in_ –not to let anyone else he loves die around him.

He’s been through too much to leave before he’s one hundred percent _positive_ they’re going to walk away just as much a pain in his ass as usual.

And like this, laying back against Jay’s gently moving chest, he can grip idly at the thigh bracketing him, and pretend he’s got all the good intentions in the world.

Because the Alphas are so deep in their instincts, they aren’t going to remember _fuck_.

**

“How is he?”

“Well why don't you tell me what you think?” Dick says quietly into the phone while he cleans up the mess from breakfast and plans on what he’s going to make the three of them for lunch. Something easy to hold up for their Omega. Jay got to be in the bath, so he gets to feed Tim  and cuddle him close on the couch.

It’s a good trade-off.  

In the back, Dick can hear Tim and Jay arguing. Well it's more of Tim attempting to reason with or bully Jason with very little success.

“Let me out of the tub.”

A disapproving grumble.

_“No, you see here._ Look at my fingers, No that does mean kiss them– _stop that_ –look at them, they're **raisins** , Jay! Bath time. Is. Over.”

There's soft smacks of lips, and Tim groans. The sound of water splashing over the side of the tub, and Dick grins shamelessly at his Omega’s frustration while the soft sounds of B’s keyboard clacks in his ear.

“Come on Jay, please? My freaking cuticles are fine, leave them alone, you've groomed me better than an Omegan spa. Can we please at least move to the bed? You like the bed.”

A rumble in agreement and then silence.

“You're not letting me up are you?”

Dick doesn't know how Jason can make a whine and purr combo sound so smug, but he manages it so well.

“Fine.” Tim hisses, splashing irritatedly a few times before settling, “But only five more minutes. I mean it, Jason!”

Jason only coos back, and Dick really has to hand it to him. It's getting harder and harder to stay nonverbal with their heads finally clear. If that was him, he'd either be laughing at Tim's interpretations or smothering him to say how ridiculously cute he is, earning him a hundred scowls and a horrified squeak of realization. But Jay begged for one more day like this, where Tim is just compliant, grudgingly sweet and _lets them care_ and Dick can't deny his second, his other mate, anything.

They do need to have that talk soon though...soon.

“ _He’s going to murder you_ ,” B replies over the line. “ _Once he finds out the truth, he’s going to plan your demise, and you’ll never see it coming. Mark my words, Dick.”_

Dick grins at the phone unrepentant, “we just need another day like this, Bruce. He’s a hard Omega to woo, you know.”

“ _Gotham is in good hands, so take the time you need. He’s been working himself to the brink for too long anyway. The break is good for all of you_.”

“Aw, no lectures on knowing our limitations or how to not ruin your mini-me?” Dick teases as he gets a plate together.

“ _Don’t ruin my perfect Detective, Dick.”_ B deadpans while the soft sounds of leather and Kevlar sigh over the line. “ _I’ll be very upset if he turns up pregnant before he’s completely comfortable and ready.”_

Offended, the oldest Robin glares at the phone, “ _hey now_ , we would _never_ do that to Tim. He took the emergency stash of birth control this morning. We still have plenty and he’s nowhere near a Heat.”

B just hums over the line. “ _Then don’t depend on me to smooth it over when he finds out because you_ know _he will_.”

Where the Batman can’t see, the pack Alpha is smiling, “I’m counting on it, Bruce. I’m _definitely_ counting on it.”

**

After Tim fall asleep so adorably in his lap at the Netflix marathon, Dick gets his chance to just breathe in that scent and pull Jay right into his other side to nose at his almost-mate’s sweet throat.

“This...is so good,” he says quietly, gently in Jay’s jugular, all of his instincts at ease with them here, held safely with him.

The dark chuckle is his second really agreeing with him.

Really.

He even gets a nuzzle to his nose and a nice, warm, wet press of mouth. Dick turns to accommodate, lets the fingers of his free hand wind lazily in the fine hairs at the back of Jay’s neck.  It’s comfortable and warm, it soft and peppered with laughter.

“S’glad it turned out alright,” Jay just lets his nose rest right there, right on Dickie’s jugular, lettin’ his mouth run over the spot, the one what makes his mouth _water_ sometimes.

“Me too. It looked bad there for a minute.”

Jason chuffs a laugh, “Nah. B woulda never let it go that far, Baby Boy, ya know that.”

He can feel Dick grinning against the side of his face, “Why Jay, are you insinuating _Batman_ helped us trap Tim for a few days?”

“Not insinuatin’ _nothing_ , just saying,” Jason draws back enough to grin like a motherfucker, “B’s taken on ‘lotta bad guys all on his lonesome. He could kick the shit outta us both wit’out breakin’ a _sweat_ , coulda probably drugged us, kept us in the Cave while he work the shit out, but _instead_ , he calls up Timmy?” And his eyebrow cocks _up_ to make _that_ point.

“I wouldn’t be shocked if he made more of the toxin,” Dick replies seriously, “so the next time Tim gets run down, Bruce just calls him up, tells him–”

Jason chorts, “ ‘uh-on Timmy, Jay n’ Dickie been _compromised_. Gonna need y’ _help_ again.’ “

“Right?!” Dick just laughs quietly.

“Him an’ his fucking _plans_ , baby.”

“It’s fine. I’m pretty much on-board with this one.”

“Mm. Ditto. S’fine wit’ me too,” the younger Alpha nuzzles at the top of their Omega’s head and sighs out in some kind of contentment–

Until the little asshole gives ‘em the _slip_.

Literally, the youngest drops down out of Dick’s lap abruptly knocking the two together in the surprise move.

“You _assholes_ ,” the Omega’s eyes narrow, “you fucking _Ass. Holes._ ”

Because _oh yeah_. How long have they been just fucking _fine?_ Tim’s hackles rise right the hell _up_.

“Well, _shit_ ,” is the best Jason’s got for the abrupt second they’ve got before it’s time to _move_.

The ensuing fight is really just a disaster in the making because Dick has a terrible tendency to _collect_ things, so the sheer amount of things to use as weapons is extensive (especially for resourceful vigilantes).

Jason, luckily, has the forethought to secure double-secure the windows and front door _days ago_ , and Dick has been systematically stuffing bolt-holes.

Still, it’s _Tim_.

An angry, wet-kitten type of Tim.

One they really haven’t had enough time to _cuddle_ for he tries to kill them.

“C’mon, Timmy!” Dick tries gently while he leaps, crouches on the back of the couch, “You’ve been dodging us for _weeks_ , won’t talk to us except about the Mission! We were getting _desperate_.”

“ _Die._ ”

And there goes the glass figurines, _dammit_. He really _liked_ those.

Jason drops to his knees to avoid one, back-bending like a _motherfucker_ , eyes wide and hands up, all _not trying to fight_. But Jay? He’s a man what _knows_ how to stop the fightin’ when he needs ta.

“Timmers...ya _left_ us. Y’ left us like it meant _nothin’_ ta ya.”

They get a pause, a twitch.

So Dickie picks it right up, “We finally...Tim, we finally got to _have_ you, take care of you, be your pack, and you just–”

“–jus’ left.” Jay stands slowly, hands where Tim can see ‘em. “Fuck, baby. That? That ain’t what we _are_ , you feel me? Not what we ever wanted.”

Dick eases one foot on the floor, eyeing the tense Omega baring his teeth at them. “It was,” Tim growls out, “just fucking _biology_. Pack helping out pack. I _get it_.”

“Nuh-uh, Timmy,” Jay makes it soft, easy, a hand outstretched, “not just biology fer us. Never was. Y’ know that already, don’t cha?”

Fast, the Omega backs up until he’s against the wall, “ _no_ , fucking seriously? You _just_ found out and all of sudden–I mean, I was just, you know, _dying_ and shit and–” Tim sucks in a breath, steeling himself, “I can handle the _truth_. You don’t have to placate me. I’m not that great of an Omega anyway okay? I don’t need that shit.”

So there, he lays it out for them, easing up out of his crouch, “I’m going to be part of your _pack_ and a vigilante you can lean on when you need to. I’m...ah, I know we’ve been getting better. All of us, so, it’s really okay. I’ll stop disappearing, I promise. We’re good to leave it here until another catastrophe strikes. Really, we’re _good_.”

“Ya can handle the truth?” Jay asks quietly as Dick moves up beside him, “‘Zat so?”

With a hand up to wave everything away, Tim give them a half-smile, the Red Robin smirk, “Hey, c’mon Hood–”

“Because the _truth_ –” Dick completely interrupts him, stops the attempt to take them a step _back_ , “–is that I...don’t see you as a little brother. Not for a while. Jay doesn’t either.”

Wait, _what now?_

“The _truth_ ,” and Dick sees those eyes get wide and crinkle in confusion because for Tim, this was supposed to be _easy_ wasn’t it? “The _truth_ , Tim?” Dick paces forward carefully with Jay a step behind him, “Is that this is _more_ than about family or biology or crime fighting. This is _more_ than being there for the big bads and the terrible nights and the close-to-deaths. Tim, this is _more_ than all of that.”

But Tim is blinking rapidly, listening to what Dick is saying, but just– _more?_

“Baby Bird,” is Jay’s rumbling baritone, “It ain’t about helpin’ an O. Not ‘bout close ta death neither. Mighta been the way it alla come about, but that ain’t where it _started_ , you feel me?”

Now Tim feels a little breathless, a little light-headed because _no_ , they’re not saying what he _thinks_ they’re saying–

(or...or _are they?_ )

“It...it’s not?” He says is carefully, precisely, something in his chest winding up, getting _tight_.

“Nope,” both Alphas echo, closing in on him.

“When you were eighteen, I could finally–” Dick starts quietly.

“When the Pit...when ya saved me from the Pit, Timmy,” is a hoarse, painful admission.

And his eyes go to back and forth, seeing it there, seeing this something _more_.

“I could finally admit it to myself,” Dick finishes it quietly, lifting one hand. His thumb grazes the collar, a few boops and the thing falls right the hell off, discarded at their feet without a hitch. It fell off because _Dick knew the code_. Dick...let him be safe, waited for him to _get it_.

Jay lifts a hand to his finally bare neck, his eyes soft, “S’ when I realized. When it came ta’gether fer me.”

And–

Oh.

_Oh_. It’s…

_Real_.

“You two–” and his chest hitches on it, that tightness making his fists clench a little, “–are such _saps_ , I swear,” but it’s wet and he’s grinning with it. “I’ve been gone for you two for only _forever_ and it was all fine if it was because, you know, I’m a Omega, but that...that can’t be the defining factor. It _can’t_ be. I...I can’t give up being what I am to be just an Omega. I _can’t_.”

And because his scent is tinged with the curls of _happy_ , the Alphas wind their arms around him, pull him between them, bracketed by their warmth and affections, nuzzling into him with sighs of contentment.

“Don’t be stupid, Timmy,” Jay chides with a smirk.

“Agreed. I mean even Ra’s wants a piece of you, so who else _wouldn’t?_ ”

It’s stupid how he winds his hands in Jay’s shirt and Dick’s boxers, let them close, finds no deception in their scents, finds only the nice mellow musk of _happy Alphas_.

It’s a scent he could definitely get used to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit it up with some love ;) Thanks for reading


	11. Fracture 'What-if': BatDad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why,” he stutters when black replaces gray and his brain fuzzes more, starts shutting down because of the impending owfuck, “the hell does it matter? I’m not your fucking responsibility anymore, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a what-if from the Fracture Verse I’ve thought about for a while and it got really long and intense really fast. When someone prompted me for angst, just THIS. This is what I thought of. Arkaedia has checked it out, so...I thought I would throw it up here.  
> Ah, I’ve written about the Insurgents Crisis in Fracture and more in the three-part spin-off Destroyed. Basically, the Titans take on the invaders and most the JL mentors take their sidekicks for some R&R except for Red Robin, who goes back to the Tower to take care of himself and Batman just kind of lets him go.  
> Well, What-If B just wasn’t having any of that? What if this huge knowledge drop happened a year before Dick got Jay to break into the Penthouse. What if B gets a full on lesson on what the fuck Tim's been dealing with? What if Red has only been out of the Triad's clutches for a few weeks?

All-in-all, invading aliens are douche canoes.

_Seriously_.

Kon, Cassie, Bart, Rave, Gar, and Miguel are all in agreement with him on this one; especially after they were all trapped in an endless of loop of their worst moment, worst losses, worst failures while stuck in the alien’s most powerful weapon:  _the Mind Trap_.

Sure, it had been his brilliant, last-ditch idea to jump ball to the wall into the trap, giving him the access to their neural net he needed to break the hive mentality and shut them down from the inside.

It doesn’t make anything,  _any of it_ , any better.

While he’s reliving Kon’s final moments, Raven’s near insanity at the hand of Trigon, Gar’s out-of-control power ripping his body  _apart_ , Cassie’s nearly fatal injuries, Bart’s last wishes while he coughs up blood and bile, Miguel watching his beloved slip in a coma to hover on the edge of death—

While he’s doing all of that, Cassie is getting hit with a two week span of time he was tortured as Tim Drake, Kon is getting a load of life with a ruptured spleen bleeding out, Bart is feeling the contagion taking hold to kill Batman’s sidekick, Gar is feeling the pain when he, Damian, and Dick are fighting it out after the Robin tunic was given away without his consent, and Miguel is feeling a whole lot of  _owfuck_  from that time the Red Hood tried giving him a second smile to worry about.

But what matters in the end? With Raven’s help, he’s able to keep part of his mind partitioned off from the alien device so he can live through the atrocities of his team and hack the invader’s tech at the same time—enough to put in his carefully recalibrated virus to take them the fuck  _down_.

The trap faded around them once the virus his  _jackpot_  and breaks the neural-net connection, essentially making the invaders as potent as five-year olds throwing temper tantrums.

The following  _beat-down_  is enjoyable enough to make up for the hour spent reliving their worst moments and fears, in having  _those moments_  share with the rest of the team.

Well, not really.

But still, it’s a pretty sweet revenge fight.

As per usual, the JL appears out of the sky over San Fran once the main body of fighting is pretty much over and done with. They’ve already started on clean-up with the local authorities when Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, Zatanna, the Flash, Martian Manhunter, Green Arrow, and the Batman show up to take a look around at the nice pile of former  _mayhem_.

It’s a surprise when Superman goes straight for Superboy, eyes wide with concern, gripping the teen’s arms and asking quietly if he’s been hurt, is he okay? Does he need to go to the fortress for some healing time?

Wonder Woman is similarly concerned upon seeing Wonder Girl wavering with some bloody patches on her elbows and ribs, but it’s the younger hero’s  _eyes_  that really bother her. Without a word to the rest of the Justice League, she takes one of her protégé’s arms around her shoulders and takes to the sky, intent on going to Paradise Island for the younger to recuperate.

The Flash pretty much catches KF in an all-encompassing hug, blurting out how  _bad ass_  the younger speedster did on such terrible bad guys, how  _proud_  he is of what KF did here today, how they need to check him over before he collapses, and just  _let me feed and care for you, little bro._

Zatanna feels the sharp, aching throb of pain coming directly from Raven, the power radiating in shards of  _agony_.  As a fellow magic user, she has no qualms going directly to the younger woman and talking gently, almost begging her to come to New York and the quiet room set-up to negate magic and allow for healing.

Martian Manhunter, who’s known Gar for  _years_ , sees the strain, the trembling, flinching muscle, and just pulls the unresisting Beast Boy up in his arms with something spoken softly against the mop of green hair, and flies off with a nod to the Bat.

Red Robin, beaten and abused, bloody and limping, is glad the JL came for his team; the aftermath of this, the rawness of it, the pain, would be a real bitch for them to deal with. They would need the support and the time to come back from the slideshow of horrors they all experienced.

He turns away from the members of his team being taken away by their mentors and friends, going up to Cyborg with a copy of the virus he created to take the Insurgents  _down_ , and gave the JL member some of the deets about the who, what, when, where, and why since, you know, invading aliens are usually part of the JL’s extensive  _repertoire_  of ass-kicking.

He finally puts the bo away now that clean-up crews are underway and the invaders are being detained by A.R.G.U.S.  With the job over and done with, he pulls a grapple in one bloody hand, fires it at the convenient rooftop to take to flight. Their part is done and Amanda Waller’s people can figure out what the fuck to do with the aliens.

At least from here, he’s close enough to the Tower to get half-way there without doing more damage to his ribs and the terrible concussion—

( _V_ )

—Vash the Stampede, hitting the back of his brain pan. He needs antibiotics and first-aid to stop the bleeding as well as possible other bad shit, like  _septic shock_ , from setting in (since, really, it’s  _ass_ ) before he starts up adding this little sitch to the Titan’s records. Then he needs to get back on the hunt for those curiously well-funded labs getting Black Market equipment, and—

The slight  _paf_  of another zip line shakes him a little in mid-air.

The shadow of the Bat is coming right up behind him, dark cape flaring out behind the older vigilante so Red can plainly  _see_  B’s arm already out to grab him around the middle and pretty much pull him right the hell off his own zip line.

“What the f—!?”

But they’re moving through the air, his words lost to the rushing wind while B’s line attaches to the Batplane flying overhead, retracting to bring them closer to the dark silhouette in the sky.

With his back pressed up against the yellow oval and symbol on B’s chest (and  _once upon a fucking time_  this  _meant_  something, didn’t it?), and that arm like iron around him, Red’s lip curls up in a sneer, shouting over the Batplane’s engine making his hurting jaw ache just  _that much more_.

“What the hell do you  _need_?” The unsaid  _can’t this wait?_  Is right there.

B leans in to talk against his ear while they’re still in mid-air, probably not at  _all_  aware of the ringing so  _loud_  anyway, “I don’t need anything. Hold on.”

But through the lightheadedness, the strikes of vertigo, the nausea rising up, Red still clenches his aching jaw and focuses on how the hold around his gut hurting this much  _proves_  he’s pulled something probably important.

“Then I don’t want a ride to the Tower. I’ve got it” Because  _he does_. He’s had to have his own back for the better part of two years, before and after he brought B back from being lost in time and left the Bats to figure their own shit out. He’s stayed away from their family when he’s in Gotham, stayed  _back_  because, well, Replacement, right?

Even if he and Jason are on better terms than ‘ _let me show you the pointy end of this knife,_ ’ he’s still not even fucking  _going there_.

The exit door to the Batplane slides open right under the cockpit. “I’m not giving you a ride to Titan’s Tower.” Is B’s rumbling reply as they close in.

“Not all of us can jump from one crisis to the next. Give me 48 hours and then you can email me with whatever intel you’re after.” But he’s blinking behind the whiteouts, feeling sick and fuzzy, the injuries that apparently aren’t going to just  _wait_  a minute.

“I  _don’t_  need any intel, Tim,” B snaps out, seemingly angry at  _something_.

Red is too far into the pain game to really give a fuck about more of  _this_  little back-and-forth with his former partner. “Then what the  _hell_  do you  _want?_ ” He snaps back, gripping the arm around him at the wrist, pulling his secondary grapple for, you know,  _just in case_.

(Well, it’s not like they’re on  _good terms_  or anything—B has a Robin, so what’s this all about?)

“Stop it. You’re going to fall,” the arms gets tighter with his meddling, and Red gasps out a pained noise when something tender is squeezed right along with it. His upper body flops over B’s arm in an attempt to curl up against the pain.

He barely realizes they’re up through the door and into the cockpit while the plane glides smoothly on auto-pilot. The minute B’s arm falls away, he can brace himself on the control panel and try to breathe without puking.

Gloved hands turning him makes him jerk back a step as far as he can in the small space, pulling away.

“Just…just get me to the damn Tower,” is hoarse, blood on the Batplane’s floor now. Great, he’s going to probably get a  _right bitching_  in his voicemail from Alfred explaining what a pain in the  _ass_  bloodstains are to get out,  _Sir_.

“I’m  _not_  taking you to the Tower,” B growls back.

And there it is again, Batman is gripping his bicep, pulling him closer, the whiteouts dipped down and the free hand roving over the torn places in his suit.

“Then why the  _fuck_  am I in here, and—and  _stop that_.  _Shit!_ ” His knees wobble, his move to pull back aborted when a gloved hand presses along his left side. Bile rushes up into his throat, swallowed back down by sheer fucking  _willpower_.

“The Titans just took on invading  _aliens_ , Tim. You need medical attention and time to recuperate. Your suit stood up to most of it, but you’re bleeding.”

_Again_. There it is. B said his name more times in the last ten minutes than he has in the last year. What. The. Ever. Loving.  _Fuck_. Is. Happening?

“Then—” he stutters out between panting breaths, fighting the dizziness and pending gray edges to his vision, “let me go to the  _fucking_  Tower so I can patch myself up.”

B seems to finally  _get_  that something is rotten in Denmark, and lets Red pull out of the hold. With his vision failing and  _go time_  eminent, Red fumbles back at the control panel in an attempt to slam the button that will open the door back for him to jump out of and fire his extra grapple. Then he’s going to be hitting the Medical floor in like, six minutes tops because much longer and he’s going to be in  _oh shit_  land just like when the Triad—

He misses on the first shot because B knocks his hand away and the exit stays closed.

“Wh-What the hell are you—?”

And sometimes, B is just  _that guy_  because the corresponding blow to his  **worst**   **injury**  is such a fucking  _dick move_.

But it has the intended effect, showing how  _weak_  he apparently is because his knees knock together and go out on him. He would have ended up on the floor if B hadn’t swept him up like some fainting lily and kicked the co-pilot’s chair around with one foot to set him down in it.

“You’re in no shape to go back to the Tower,” B makes it statement punctuated with the last hit.

“…asshole…” he faintly gasps while the pain makes him clench his jaw against a noise.

“We’re going to talk when I’m not worried about internal bleeding and broken bones. Since when have you been taking care of injuries this extensive on your own? I’m fairly sure a stipulation to joining the Titans was that you keep me updated when you get hurt.” B fills in, hands pausing when he realizes the Red Robin’s suit design is…different. Very different. The design has changed, along with the security traps (and he wonders  _when_  it happened. He should have the current designs of  _all_  his sons’ suits, including armor schematics and the necessary details).

His Bat sense is going off about everything, more so than when Clark first picked him up from Gotham to inform him the Titans are in the fight of their  _lives_  because invading aliens managed to bypass the Watchtower’s systems.

He’d set the Batplane for follow them, already worried about how Red Robin would be holding up while Clark sped them as fast as possible to San Francisco, meeting up with the other JL members on the way.

None of them had to say how worried they were, it was evident, even if you weren’t the so-called  _World’s Greatest Detective._

But the nagging  _something_  tugging at his inner sense when Red shot his grapple without even a  _word_  to him is getting stronger, is making him worry a hell of a lot more than he was even an hour ago.

He feels out the obvious injuries, even with Red’s hand weakly shoving his away.

“No internal bleeding, nothing broken. This concussion is the bee’s  _knees_  thanks. A stop at the Tower to drop me off would be just—” and  _yes, B_ , that  _was_  one of their agreements. Back when he was still Robin, when someone actually  _gave a fuck_. He almost comes out with that, but stutters to a halt because Batman gives  _no fucks_  about anything but flicking out a razor-sharp batarang and cutting the tunic right up the center, pulling away the dented, broken armor to get to the body suit and main bleeders underneath.

“Tim, I said I’m not taking you there. No one is going back for the moment, and you need medical treatment, these look serious.” B already has the gloves and gauntlets off, “Batcomputer,” he turns slightly and gets the acknowledging boop, “full body scan of Red Robin. Send results to Agent A.”

“N-No, no, not—” but his arms flop uselessly and the six-minute window has already passed him up. It’s  _fail_  time apparently.

Behind the whiteouts, B’s eyes narrow with this consistent fight. There’s something very wrong here, something wrong when his former Robin is fighting him tooth and nail when he’s half-loopy on blood loss and exertion. “Yes. There is  _no way in hell_  I’m leaving you in the Tower  _by yourself_  like this. Not going to happen, Tim. I am  _not_  going to let you bleed out all over your computers.”

And B shoves his cowl back to show those electric blue eyes, narrowed stubbornly when there’s  _my way or no way_  going down.

“Why,” he stutters when black replaces gray and his brain fuzzes more, starts shutting down because of the impending  _owfuck_ , “the hell does it matter? I’m not your fucking responsibility anymore, right?”

He tries to sneer, tries to move, tries to snarl and snap about  _why not a little bit of fuck-off for your day,_  but nothing is responding to command. Before he blacks out, though, he gets to see the look of utter shock on Batman’s face, and well, the small surge of satisfaction at getting the drop on the Dark Knight leads him to the way—

_Out_

**

“Septic  _shock_?” Dick gasps, utterly  _dumbfounded_.

“Yes, Master Dick,” Alfred carefully works, aproned and gloved, cleaning the last of the ragged, raw injuries before he would need to wrap them. The boy on the bed isn’t moving except for his chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths.

He does, however, press a button on the touchpad above the bed in the Cave’s medical area to show the outline of a human body with a glaring red circle.

“It seems Master Timothy is no longer in possession of the viscera necessary for fighting off infections.”

Bruce in only the body suit, Dick in sweats and t-shirt, and Damian without the domino all turn to Alfred.

And  _stare_.

“You are saying he no longer has a spleen?” Dami verified, “and is thus more prone to illness?”

“That is precisely what the scans are showing, Master Damian, and I ran them several times to verify.”

The youngest Bat blinks once, blinks twice, and turns back to the unconscious form of Tim Drake lying still and silent. It was bad enough the four of them received a  _nasty_  shock while peeling the Red Robin body suit off to reveal a mass of still-healing welts, burns, and broken skin marring the span of Tim’s  _back_  (what the  _hell_  happened?) and the other injuries in the process of healing, injuries that look suspiciously like  _torture_  on his upper body, arms, and hands; not to mention how Alfred huffs angrily at the visible curve of ribs standing out against pale skin, but finding out he also lost, you know, a semi-crucial body part sometime since his last Bat-physical (hearing the  _date_  is the next shocker of the night) is pretty much the last straw.

“I’m going to do some research. Let me know if he comes to, Alfred.” B turns away with a snarl, the muscles in his back and shoulders  _tight_.

“I shall, Master Bruce. However, I have no intention of tying him down to the bed frame. Should I be detained with dinner, please refrain from using cuffs.”

“I’m not making any promises,” Bruce snaps back, already in his chair at the Batcomputer to start digging into the last six months of Red Robin’s vigilante career and Tim Drake’s personal life.

Gingerly, Dick ruffles Damian’s hair and moves to sit on the medical bed by Tim’s hip, staring up at the closed eyes and slack features. He doesn’t process Alfred taping gauze down on the current injuries, but picks up a bruised and battered hand to hold in both of his while looking at a very obvious  _scar_  now that he knows some of what’s been going on in the time since Tim has been back to the Manor after the Robin mantle went to Dami.

(And Dick feels like a right  _bastard_  because he remembers coming up the stairs, thinking Tim might have been in his old room after their  _thing_  with Ra’s people before B had been found—when he thought Tim might have come to his senses and come  _home_  to be Red Robin here with them…and found Tim’s room empty. His things moved out, the shelves missing his usual array of books and video games, no clothes in the closets, no extra suits in the hidey holes, no shampoo in the shower or toothpaste on the sink. The Flash shower curtain is gone, replaced by a generic one in most of the other guest rooms. And just turning in circles, the hard weight in his chest, the utter  _pain_  when he realized Tim never meant to  _come back_. He was already gone from the Cave where Alfred had patched him up, where Tim had  _told Dick specifically,_ “You’re my brother. I knew you’d catch me.”)

He sighs, shoulders rising with the move. He doesn’t say anything as Alfred continues to dress the injuries and Tim sleeps on.

It’s not very long before a sharp intake of breath from the computer draws their eyes, and B is typing furiously to get more information. Hacking into the Tower’s mainframe is child’s play, especially when he has Vic doing the hard work.

Tim’s ghost drive, however, is yielding more results than he anticipated.

The video file labeled  _Triad_  makes his stomach churn.

Dick leaves Tim to sleep off the drugs and antibiotics, for his fever to slowly come down under their ministrations. He grins a little at Damian asleep in the chair next to the medical bed and steps over to the computer where Bruce is looking grim, fists clenched tight on the control panel.

Dick almost asks,  _almost_ , until he catches the video playing—

And watches Tim Drake take a whip to the back while their former Robin is  _screaming_.

“Oh…Oh my  _God_ ,” he blinks, chest tight, nausea rising up when the footage skips and the next scene is Tim being held down by the arms and shoulders, the remains of his business suit ripped to give a span of bloody skin for the glowing hot iron bar to be set down.

He doesn’t know when he moved or when B got to his feet while the two of them try very hard not to be sick as Tim screamed over and over on the security footage.

They stand together, silenced by horror as the slideshow continues, as Tim is tortured over and over, as one of their own attempt to escape, gets to the control room and tries to get a communication out to the outside world.

By the time they have the full picture of  _how_  those marks got there and what Tim Drake had to go through, Bruce is deep in the  _Bat_ , anger radiating from every pore.

Tim was abducted outside Wayne Enterprises as his daytime persona, as Tim Drake, CEO, and none of them had known a damn thing about it.

**

It’s almost forty-eight hours later.

The Bats are in from patrol and upstairs to do human things, like sleep and eat and bathe (because the sewers of Gotham are  _nasty_  no matter how many times you’ve been down there—the sitch never gets any  _better_ ). B has scrubbed down and changed in the Cave, making sure he was free of contaminants before coming over to check on his still-sleeping Robin. Hands accustomed to delivering pain are absurdly gentle when he lays a palm on the back of Tim’s neck, glad to see his temperature is finally getting back to normal, and checking the IVs as well as the bandages on Tim’s healing back and newer injuries on his side and knee. He ruffles the too-long hair gently before going up to check quickly on Alfred and the boys before planning on coming back down to stay close to Tim, hoping he might be stable enough to wake up and talk to them.

So the Cave is empty for the moment when the machines attached to the sensor clamped on Tim’s finger and the little sticky pads on his chest start to pick up  _slightly_. Not enough to trigger an alert, just enough for him to blink open his bleary eyes riding the dredges of painkillers and sedatives.

It’s the Bat-cocktail of  _owfuck_.

Really, he should have known better.

The fog is clearing out while his head flops on one side to look around and see where he’s—and what’s happ—how did—?

His head flops to the other side, eyes widening when he realizes the big car is parked a little past the curtain, and on the other side of him, the Batcomputer looks the same, but there’s a few more things on the control panel.

He gets the urge to  _violently hurl_  once the screeching overhead signals where he’s at just in case, you know, there might be any  _doubt._

The air in his chest chokes off, leaving him coughing hard for a few seconds, enough that the pulsox beeps once in warning and he struggles to get himself under control.

The haze of painkillers is still there, but  _nothing_  short of death is going to stop him. Instead, he uses the lead to pull the little machine close to him and manages to pop the casing off. A few wires and  _boom_ , he takes the sensor off his finger and the monitor keeps going. It takes maneuvering for him to sit up enough to reach the heart monitor and do pretty much the same.

There’s cameras everywhere, but he’s sure no one would be watching (because  _why would they?_ ) as he stands on stiff, aching legs, manages to stumble a little before righting himself.

The knee isn’t going to get better anytime soon, so he’s good to be limping around because at  _least_  that means he’s on his feet.

The Red Robin suit they must have taken off of him is folded neatly on a workstation table, easy to pick up.

He feels immensely better with the body suit on (even if the pressure on still-healing injuries is  _about a bitch_ , damn); boots, gloves and gauntlets, harness and utility belt. It’s enough to rock.

A domino goes on while he nabs his somewhat stitched back together cape, but the armored tunic is totes a lost cause.

Bummer.

With the machines beeping steadily behind him, Tim leaves the tunic, makes his way further down into the Cave, favoring the leg, moves as straight-backed as possible to keep the marks on his back from pulling and getting sore all over again, as been the pattern in the last month since he’s been back from a certain little  _vacay_.

(And it’s  _fucked_  how B probably saw those marks isn’t it? Just another check in the  _who gives a shit_  category… _but_ , the old memorial case with Jason’s Robin suit is still there where it’s always been—and a double-take confirms it. His first Robin suit is in a new case next to it. Mother.  _Fucker_  does it makes his chest hurt.)

The line of  _just in case_  vehicles is in the same place it always was. A crappy beater for Matches Malone, a van for pick-ups, an Ambulance in case shit gets  _real_. A covered car in the back corner that is terribly, achingly familiar, and his eyes skitter away from it, just like he did with the memorial cases.

Instead, he goes to one of the four Ducati’s serviced and ready to rock, lifts up the seat while balancing on his good leg. Keys fall into his palm, so  _score_.

His hip only hitches slightly when he throws the bad leg over the bike so the good one can steady it, and the bruises tomorrow are going to be fucking  _beautiful_.

But for the moment,  _all good_. He’s sitting down at least, and flips the bike on, raises the bad leg to start the engine—

When Dami drops down from the ceiling vent and lands a few feet in front of him at a crouch.

No suit, no domino, but the pose is all  _Robin_.

A Robin in his pjs, but then, well, there’s school and shit in the morning isn’t there?

“Drake,” a low, almost-question.

“Nice to see you too,” he smirks with old bitterness, just  _waiting_  for it.

Dami’s eyes go from the whiteouts to the bike and back up. “This…is not a favorable course of action,” is said more carefully than he can remember the Demon ever being.

“What now?” Because seriously,  _what now?_

“You have been recovering from septic shock,” the youngest informs him, still in that crazy careful tone. “Among other injuries. It would be best if you stayed where you could be monitored should you relapse.”

Now he thinks he might be more loopy on the  _I’m fucked up_  cocktail than initially assessed. Things just aren’t…aren’t making  _sense_  here.

“I’m in a multiverse aren’t I?” Is a stupid but kind of valid question.

Damian, however, is not amused.

“You are a fool. This is not surprising.  _However_ , as I have been informed, your team stopped an alien invasion. That if nothing else would merit time, Drake.”

“Telepaths that want to take over our world are  _assholes_. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” He comes back easily, “and I have a place to recoup. It would be  _nice_  to be on my way there right about now.”

The bad leg comes down, shooting a thrill of pain up, but fuck it. Really. He needs to get  _out of here_  before Jason Todd comes around to give him a bro fist or something  _else_  just as crazy.

The engine purrs to life against his thighs.

Again, it’s  _opposite day_  because that little brat is leaning against the handlebars, scowling and talking over the engine instead of doing things like, you know,  _moving_.

“I would not do this if I were you.”

He blinks behind the whiteouts. “I don’t know what the  _fuck_  is going on here, but this is getting to  _creep-tastics_  proportions.” He leans over the handlebars as much as he can without some serious  _owfuck_  hitting, “you wanted me  _gone_ , Demon. Riff raff, remember? That cut zip line? You think I need a written  _invitation_  to get the fuck out?”

Dami’s eye widen a fraction before narrowing, the little asshole leaning in as well like they’re going to fight it out for some  _crazy_  reason because  _this is what they **all**  wanted but were too chicken-shit to tell him_.

“Dick’s too nice to say it, but you think he really  _has to_  after all this time?”

“Grayson—” Dami starts, voice raised to be heard over the purring engine.

“Never wanted me either. I guess you and Jason Todd were right all along. Want to gloat about it? How about you do it over Skype so I can get back to my  _life_?”

Dami growls, baring his teeth in a snarl, “no, you  _fool_. Grayson has missed you  _unbearably_  in the last two years. He has attempted to keep track of you while you searched for Father and then later when you re-joined the Titans. He is the one that built the case for your Robin suit.”

And just… _what the ever-loving fuck?_

“I am  _aware_  of how things were left when I began my own time as Robin, Drake. I am  _aware_  of—”

“Get off.” Because now he’s blinking behind the whiteout, his eyes getting hot and wet  _fast_. “Get the  _fuck off_.”

“No!” Damian snarls back, gripping the handlebars tighter, like he has every intention of  _holding on_. “I  _refuse_  to let you leave like this!”

And so, apparently it’s time to  _spell it out_. “No one gives a  _shit_  if I’m here or  _not_.” He shoves himself standing, old, buried pain rearing up from the terrible place in his brain pan where he’d buried it all just so he could keep  _moving_. “They let me inherit the cape because I was an  _asshole_  kid and found out their secret. They let me  _keep it_  because I did an alright job at keeping B from fucking himself up like Robin is  _supposed to do_. And he took me  _in_  because my fucking father was  _murdered_  when my identity was compromised. It’s ‘adopt an orphan syndrome,’ Damian. That’s  _it_. I fucking  _Get. It. Now._ ”

Those eyes narrow, color rising to the younger vigilante’s face. But Tim leans down, blinking rapidly behind the whiteout because he’s not going to give him or  _any_ of them  _that fucking satisfaction_.

His voice is low, almost angry if it didn’t crack, giving away  _more_  than he wants, especially to Damian. “Besides, why would they want the  _replacement_  when they’ve got the real son in the cape anyway, right? You said that, and you were right, weren’t you?”

“N-none of that—Drake… _Timothy_ , you don’t honestly,” and the twelve year old almost looks his age for once, “you don’t honestly  _believe_ that.”

The corner of his mouth twitches up in a very unfunny smirk, “I’m a detective, Damian. I don’t believe anything until I have evidence.”

The younger Bat sputters a moment, looking oddly shell-shocked, but he doesn’t let go, refuses to give up, “evidence?  _Open your eyes, Drake_. Father ordered the Justice League to attend your battle as soon as he knew, made Kent come to pick him up as he knew it would be the fastest way to get to  _you_.”

“What part of  _aliens_  wasn’t clear? That is usually JL territory, we just happened to call  _dibs_.”

Dami’s fists tighten around the handlebars, “I have been Robin for three years.  _Three years_ , Drake. If there is anything I have learned in that time, it is how Father would not leave any of his Robins behind.  _Not even you_.”

Welp, that’s going to be a very  _hard_  eventual realization for the kid. But really, it isn’t any of his business anymore.  _None of this is_.

He sinks back down slowly, painfully because it’s time  _to go_. “Get out of the way.”

The hair on the back of his neck, however, cuts him off, makes his straighten up again on the bike and rev up the engine. Dami isn’t moving, but is just staring at him looking like he might pull out that wicked katanna for a little  _sliced n’ diced_  vigilante rather than deal with his shenanigans. Not like it’s nothing  _new_.

But the ghost sensation has drawn the brat’s attention as well, those eyes drawn over Tim’s left shoulder.

Without turning to look, he gives the standard, “thanks for the pick-up. Let me know when you need the next batch of intel. We’ll have a crime-fighting party with confetti and everything.”

The hand on his bicep is something he hadn’t anticipated, startling him to look up at Bruce’s bare face and angry eyes.

_Oh shit. Batman’s not a happy camper. Time to hit the dirt._

From his other side, Dick comes out of nowhere and reaches around him to turn the bike off and take the key out of the ignition.

Oh, so  _that’s_  how it is? After all the years he put into maintaining the bikes and cars just like  _everyone else_ —

“Like I  _said_ ,” he deadpans, trying very,  _very_  hard not to get pissed off at the snub, “thanks for the pick-up. I’ll get together whatever data you’re looking for when—”

“Get off the bike, Tim,” Bruce emphasizes the order with a tug to his arm.

“Seriously?” Well, there goes the  _best_  of intentions, “I’ll bring it  _back_  if this is a problem.”

“Not the point. Get the  _hell_  off the  _bike_.”

He shoves himself to his feet, already planning on hitting up Kon in a quick text just to get a ride out of here as fast as fucking possible, itching to jerk his arm out of B’s hold (and  _dammit_ , he hates to do that now that Clark isn’t being an asshat extraordinaire). So he lets it ride for the moment since, well, he pretty much shouldn’t  _be here_  anyway, so the lecture is probably going to be fucking  _spectacular_.

His hip hitches again when he swings his leg back over the bike, but it’s only slightly painful this time around.  _Nope_ , there’s more pain elsewhere that has nothing to do with  _skin_  and soft, fleshy bits.

He in no way is prepared for Bruce pulling his arm up and around those massive shoulders, bending down enough to be about Tim’s height. The limp isn’t as bad with B supporting him with an arm around his waist (under the worst of the older marks) and gripping the wrist, walking him right the fuck back into the depths of the Cave where Alfred is waiting with hands properly folded behind him.

“Ah, the patient is awake,” Alfred is calm, cool, and collected as per usual. “Perhaps a stronger dose of painkillers should have been in order.”

“Not necessary,” he fills in shortly, pulling away from Bruce as soon as possible, a passing glance off the machines he’d reconfigured. “Thanks for patching me up, Alfred.”

The butler sighs through his nose and it’s so painfully  _familiar_. “Of  _course_ , Master Tim. If you would be so kind as to change clothing, the bandages will need to be checked again.”

He holds up a hand, “again, not necessary. I’m on my way out—”

Dick shoves sweats and a t-shirt in his chest, jaw clenched tight enough that a muscle is jumping there, and it’s  _fine_ , he gets it. Dick doesn’t want him there. He really doesn’t need this—

“I’m trying to be  _out_  of your hair,” he growls back at the former Batman and current Nightwing. “I didn’t  _ask_  to come here. Not  _my_   _bad_.”

If anything, Dick’s expression gets even  _angrier_. Angry enough that the hands holding the clothes are trembling finely until Tim takes them just to get the older vigilante to step back.

“Drake,” and it’s really saying something when  _Damian_  is the one stepping between them, trying to keep, well, whatever  _peace_  distance can realistically bring. “This is difficult to believe, but there is a  _grave_  misunderstanding happening here.”

His eyebrows draw together, head tilted down to the youngest, but he wisely remains silent because there’s  _volumes_  he could say about  _that_.

“Do you need assistance, Master Tim?” Alfred cuts in, trying to divert the brewing storm raging in Dick and Bruce’s expressions, “I should say some of your injuries must be rather painful at this juncture. Your back, for example—”

“I’ve got it. Thank-you.”

“Very good, Sir. Once you have changed, I have a delightful pot of coffee and breakfast—”

But  _those words_  make his head snap around, “coffee?”

Because  _yes_. The answer is always  _yes_.

Alfred hums knowingly, “indeed. I believe it is the Sumatra brand you seem to favor?”

And  _dammit_. Just,  _dammit Alfred_.

In reply, he limps back to pull the curtain closed in the sectioned-off medical area, flopping the sweats and t-shirt down on the gurney. Deep, cleansing breath, and he reverses order, taking off gloves and gauntlets, boots, utility belt and harness, cape and dom, leaving the body suit for last (since there’s the most  _owfuck_  of the day).

“Tim? You okay?” B’s voice is softer, floating over the partition, his silhouette against the curtain.

“I’m fine,” he taps on his wrist computer with one arm through the t-shirt. Getting the sweats on is painful but it’s whatever really, the knee isn’t going to get any better so no use whining about it.

Instead, he puts the wrist computer back on his forearm and comes out  _a la_  civvies, his too-long hair probably wrecked, but with a KO of approximately two days?

He shoves the curtain back, cracking his neck, and starting to move to intercept Alfred’s approach. “Bandages are clean, so I’m good. Thanks.”

The butler tisks and gently simply steers Master Tim back to the gurney, “I will need to check your levels as well as the injuries you are unable to  _see_ , Master Tim. You certainly cannot assess your back unless you’ve taken to perform feats of magic?”

The others approach, watching with grave faces as the butler allows a cup and saucer inside the medical area, an excuse to keep Tim’s hands busy so work can be done.

“My levels are f—” The smell hits like an aphrodisiac and his eyes fall half-mast just because  _coffee_.

“Do not say ‘fine.’ For a young man without the necessary organ to build up proper immunities, then I would dare to say  _yes_. However, for a crime-fighting vigilante, your white cell count is woefully  _deficient_.”

_Oh_. So  _that’s_  what this is about?

Shit.

“I’ve had enough time to adjust.” Is all he bites out as the butler gloves up, winds a stethoscope around his neck.

When B’s hands plant on his hips like he is winding up for  _the mother_  of all lectures, and Damian puts a hand to Dick’s forearm to stop him from saying  _whatever_  might be ready to come out of his mouth, Tim realizes how much of a thing this might be.

The butler, however, just frowns, “then I will pose the obvious question, Master Tim. How many episodes of septic shock have you experienced before now?”

His jaw clenches, eyes close briefly because when he got off that  _fucking_  ship—

The pinch to his inner elbow jars him out of it (luckily) or he might still be smelling stagnant water and imagine the world rocking under his feet.

“Twice,” and he leaves it at that, going more pale at the bits flashing through his brain pan.

Alfred removes the syringe, tapes a cotton ball to the small wound. “Twice, Sir?” is quiet, neutral.

Tim swallows, looking at the span of wall instead of any of them, “yeah.”

“Once recently I’m afraid?” And Alfred sets the blood sample aside, easily moves a gloved hand to be under Master Tim’s still holding the delicate saucer. The minute clattering stops when he does.

“Yeah,” hoarse, but  _fuck yes_.

“Your back, Tim?” now Alfred’s tone is moving into soothing, someone that can ( _used to be_ ) be trusted.

Still staring at the wall, keeping himself together, Tim gives a short, pointed nod.

“What—” Dick steps a little closer to his side, not enough to set him off, but enough to reach out, slowly, easy, “who did that to you, Timmy?”

His shoulders tense with the contact, and he blinks hard, shaking himself out of it, shaking himself the  _fuck_  back to the present. He lifts the cup and takes a drink of utter  _heaven_.

It helps to steady him, to keep his head  _out_  of the two weeks he spent being tortured as Tim Drake, CEO, and the more recent fight with dick bag aliens.

“I took care of it.”

“That doesn’t tell us anything,” Dick counters. “Timmy…you were  _tortured_.”

And well, yes. Yes, he was.

“Yup,” is his soft admission, staring down into the depths of his coffee while Alfred moves around behind him and the shirt inches up his spine, making his hackles rise just slightly. “I was.”

And he knows, he  _knows_ , Alfred was trying to be careful, wasn’t trying to do anything, but the wounds, the memories, all of it was still so new and  _raw_ , that when the touch hits the wrong spot, reminds him of a burning iron bar pressed against his shoulders, he chokes and moves without thinking.

The cup and saucer crash to the floor, and he is  _up_ , moving away, spinning in mid-air, landing at a crouch with his leg and back screaming, his eyes wide, hand automatically poised in a nerve strike. And he can  _fight_ , he can fight, and he can win. He can save them this time, save them all, and he can—

He can, he  _will_.

Whizzing and moving, focused on not throwing up, focused on not  _stopping_.

Bruce is gripping his face between those massive palms from one blink to the next, and Tim realizes he must have been moving again because they aren’t standing by the medical area anymore.

Instead, he’s pinned down on one of the big mats used for practice and training half-way across the Cave, the vinyl soft and worn-in under the arm Bruce has pinned at the wrist. His back is fucking  _agony_  because he’s laying down on the healing injuries. Worse, he’s shaking like fuck, the coffee in his stomach rolling with it.

**_“Tim! You need to stop. Just. Stop.”_ **

But it’s just as bad because he can’t be held down.

That…he’s not  _good_  with that, and his hips take over regardless of  _owfuck_ , bucking up enough to get Bruce off him so he can turn over, land on all fours and gag.

“Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…”

He gets a million vigilante points for not throwing up his coffee.

A. Million.

Plopping down on his ass to try getting air back into his lungs, however, is seriously the best idea for the moment even if he’s shaky as fuck and probably embarrassed the shit out of himself.

(Regretting letting him back  _in_  now, aren’t you?)

Dick kneels in plain sight, ducking down to catch Tim’s rapidly blinking eyes. “Hey, just me,” is meant to be soft and soothing.

It’s not.

Instead, Tim closes his eyes again it and tries to calm himself but his brain is too fuzzy, still half-stuck on the ship, in the mind trap, in his team’s memories—

“…something for me, Tim. Let me know you’re with us.”

He doesn’t open his eyes so he can’t see whatever expression is on those  _faces_.

“Should have just…dropped me at the god _damned_  Tower,” he manages hoarsely, bringing his knees up to hold his heavy head.

Bruce, refusing to be diverted, gets close enough to wrap his long fingers around Tim’s ankle slowly, carefully. “No,” he claims slowly, mind working furiously at the flow of new and disturbing information, “no, Tim. I’m glad,  _very glad_ , I brought you home.”

The laugh coming out of Tim’s bent head is half-way to a sob ( _home? There hasn’t been a home in a while actually_ ), and Bruce’s hand moves up to grip into a calf instead, sliding subtly closer on his knees.

Dick paces right beside him, being absurdly careful, recognizing the reactions, the instincts Bruce bred into all his Robins to  _fight_  when you’re out of all other options. It’s knee-jerk reaction to any situation.

“You blanked out for a few minutes there, Timmy. It looked like,” he hesitates slightly from  _saying_ it even if he has  _plenty_  of experience dealing with this kind of thing, “you were having a flashback.”

“I don’t talk about it,” is the hoarse reply, the horrible panting sounds finally easing down.

“I think we’re going to try checking over your injuries again,” Dick gingerly touches a few fingers to Tim’s limp hand, “without trying to set you off, okay? We’ll…Timmy, we’ll be right here with you.” His finger firm a little, squeeze Tim’s fingers before the hand jerks out of his hold, the leg moving away from Bruce.

Tim scrambles backwards on the mat, shoves to his feet because ignoring pain is something he does  _like a boss_ , but  _pity?_  Oh, he gets all  _kinds_  of pissed off about it.

Just ask Kon. The impressive choke hold is something the super is probably never going to forget.

“I don’t need  _checked over_. I don’t  _need_  anything other than a way to get back to my  _damn_ Tower—”  _and the fuck away from here_  is implied.

Because  _really_. They can stop this mound of variable  _bullshit_  anytime now.

“I don’t need whatever in the hell this,” and his hands flutter around for a second, “this shit is all of a sudden. I lead my  _damn team,_  and it doesn’t effect how I  _work_. How I’ve  _worked_  for the last few years. I’m. Fucking.  _Good_.”

Bruce’s mouth flattens into a grim line, staring at his third Robin, the son that took his name without qualm, the son he’d let get too far the fuck  _away_  because he felt like he didn’t belong in his own  _home_. And Dick might share the burden of that, the younger vigilante nearly radiating beside him facing Tim down, ready to stop him if he tries to bolt.

And Bruce doesn’t feel bad about Damian and Alfred slowly coming up behind Tim to box him in, takes a moment to berate himself for thinking he was doing the right thing in giving Tim the  _space_  he thought the former Robin needed to heal. The same space Dick needed when he had to move on from the Robin mantle.

But he’d inadvertently caused  _both_  his former Robins nothing but pain by giving them the space to throw their bodies into the Mission to try and escape the devastation, the loss.

It’s another black mark under his name, but if anything, Bruce, the Bat, has no qualms rectifying his mistakes.

And he’s perfectly fine starting  _now_.

“Tim,” interrupts the snarling commentary on how Red Robin  _isn’t_  fucking anything up (which is unnecessary because Bruce already  _knows_  it), and makes the injured bird abruptly pause. “Let me get this  _straight_.”

The third Robin stops, seems to mentally re-set, like when they started up a new case and the personal lives had to be left in the Cave before they got into the big car for the upcoming night. It’s enough of the  _old_  Tim that Bruce takes a few cautions steps, holding up fingers to tick off so he’s got Tim’s attention on the visual.

“You were kidnapped as your daytime persona, as Tim Drake, not Red Robin—”

Oh  _shit_. Well, World’s Greatest Detective. Of course he’d find out. It happened  _in his city_.

“—they tortured you on a ship in the middle of the ocean. You escaped, brought them down, and turned them in to several branches of authorities. Four days ago, you showed up as Red Robin when the Insurgents hit Earth’s atmosphere. You went into a fight with your team against a psychic  _horde_  without calling for back-up. And you  _won_. All right so far?”

“Sounds…about right.”

Bruce hums, nods, “and… _why_  do you think I would questioning how  _effective_  you are as a vigilante?”

Wait.

Tim’s mouth works but nothing comes out because, well,  _point_.

“I have no idea why you’re trying to convince me when I’m already  _well aware_  how incredible you are in the field. I don’t need any other justifications. What I  _need to know_ ,” and Bruce unfolds his arms, hands loose at his sides, trying to look less intimidating so Tim’s hackles won’t rise again, “is when your spleen was removed and what criminal caused it. What I want to  _know_  is if you’ve seen anyone to help you through the trauma you went through on that ship. What I want to know is  _why_  you keep telling me you’re fine and you handle it when you are obviously  _not fine_. No one, Tim,  _no one_  could be after all that.”

And the younger vigilante stares up at him, taller than the last time Bruce had a chance to really  _see_  him, with narrow eyes that are already calculating his next moves. B knows it because he sees Tim’s eyes slide to Alfred and Damian, slide over to Dick before coming back to him. It’s saying something when the Bat is hovering at the fore of his mind, ready for another mad attack if Tim flips back into those flashbacks and starts fighting by instinct.

“What I need to  _know_ is,” B counters softly, “why you didn’t come  _home_  when you needed to.”

When Tim stays silent, when his beaten, battered body gets as straight as it can, Bruce sees enough, knows  _enough_.

He nods slowly, like he  _gets it_ , whatever silent message Tim is putting out, and returns that intense look, sees so  _much_  hidden under the exterior that he should have picked up long before this very moment.

“You three go upstairs. Have some downtime,” he waves a shooing hand at Dick, Damian, and Alfred, “Tim didn’t get his coffee, and I honestly don’t need any more caffeine induced contingencies on my hands.”

“ _Bruce_ —” is Dick’s desperate attempt to stay because now he  _knows_  how much of this, how  _much_  of it is right on his head.

“Dick. Go have some downtime.”

Dami isn’t happy, is looking with his head tilted up, those dark eyes all for the scowl on Tim’s face, the sneer.

Alfred, however, steps between them, Master Timothy and Master Bruce to break the stare down and lift a fresh cup and saucer into the younger vigilante’s hand. It breaks the oldest man’s heart when Master Tim… _hesitates_.

But the hands are steady when the coffee is taken, and the young Master is looking carefully away from the butler, a muscle in his jaw flickering.

“Thank-you,” is said softer than the rest.

“What else could I do, Master Tim? My life is dedicated to caring for my family, and that includes you.” A small pat to the younger man’s head while the angry, defensive expression falls to wide-eyed and slack, like the younger Master is genuinely  _surprised_. The saucer is held tighter in busted fingers when Timothy’s spine snaps straighter and he blinks rapidly, trying to harden himself, pull his strength around him like a cloak so none of them can see what abject  _pain_  he is in—how he obviously was very certain he no longer belonged here, with them all.

“Oh Tim,” the butler sighs sadly, gently, “this may be untoward, so forgive me, but it is so nice to see you. As much as we have missed, as much as you have suffered and succeeded, I am still so happy to have you  _home_.”

The reaction is those wide eyes, the true tell to Master Timothy’s thoughts returning to his face and immediately seeking out any deception on the butler’s part, any lies or placations, any shred of evidence to support his previous theories.

Alfred smiles, just a small curve of his lower lip, when the younger man’s shoulders lose a small bit of tension, just enough to prove he found no lies here. When he can have just a hint of belief. It’s just enough for Alfred to fit a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and squeeze with infinite gentleness before he’s herding two of his other charges up into the Manor, casting a glance back at the long line of Master Bruce’s tense back before he and Master Dick exchange a very concerned look.

**

And they leave Tim and Bruce in the Cave with the fluttering of bats, the gentle hum of working equipment, with damaged suits, and healing bodies, with injuries and trauma.

It’s such a painful thing for Bruce, staring at Tim and  _remembering_  a younger kid standing in the same place with the R over his heart, the suit of his Robin and that crazy, wide grin in anticipation for nightfall when they could move together.

When Tim’s team was Batman and Robin.

“None of this is necessary,” and it’s Red Robin’s voice, unshakeable and reliable. A leader. A vigilante.

And  _not_  the person Bruce wants to talk to right at this moment.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce cuts off that train of thought, seeing past the denials and old pain, seeing past  _everything_  Tim is spitting out, the abject hurt, the theory that maybe,  _maybe_  they’d just been-been  _using_  him all this time. That he was just a kid in a cape or something just as ridiculous. “I’m sorry it got this far. I’m  _sorry_  none of us, me or Dick or Alfred jumped in to remind you that you will  _always_  have a home here, no matter what.  There’s no excuse for it, Tim, absolutely none.”

The younger vigilante frowns harder, his thought processes obvious to the World’s Greatest Detective.

“Once Damian and I could realistically work together, Dick left out of Gotham to trail the Titans and see if he could at least  _talk_  to you, but the team was moving fast, so he wanted to wait until you were in town again. But, regardless, we let this go on for  _too_  long, letting you get further and further away without checking in, without coming  _back_.”

“I didn’t need to.” Tim interjects, firming his jaw, still staying as far inside the mask as he possibly can, trying to protect himself.

And Bruce finally  _sees_  it.

“And you don’t have to do this,” the younger vigilante puts the cup and saucer down immediately, eyes never losing that hard edge, “at all. It’s not necessary at this point. I’m still going to be the intel guy, the IT solution. I’ll still come when you call just like I’ve  _always done_.”

“That’s not  _good enough_.” Bruce insists back, arms loose by his sides, “it was never supposed to be needed over  _wanted_ , and it  _isn’t_  like that. You won’t believe me until you have evidence, I  _know_  already, but Tim,” and Bruce comes up on him, not the stalk of the Bat or the stride of the daytime persona, it’s all Bruce Wayne—

_Dad_.

He’s careful but firm, hands tilting his son’s face up a little, taking in the widening eyes of surprise, “ _Tim_ , you are always,  _will always_  be one of my  _sons_. Just like Dick and Jason and Damian. That’s what you agreed to when you took on the mask. You became mine and the Batman’s, our Robin, our partner, our  _son_ , and  _yes,_  yes this  _is_  necessary. It’s completely and totally necessary because along the way the important things got pushed to the wayside, and it’s so  _far_  from  _fine_  that I can’t even begin to list the problems here.”

And the younger vigilante has the most probable reaction Bruce can predict.

He  _fights_.

“Bullshit,” is hoarse, angry when Tim shoves away, steps  _back_ , “and I don’t need  _bullshit_ , Bruce. You think I don’t get it? I was the kid that figured out  _your secret_ , you  _had_  to keep me, to keep me quiet about it. So of fucking  _course_  you’d let me wear the R. What would I have done if you  _hadn’t?_  Just because I got  _good at it_  doesn’t mean I don’t fucking recognize how it never should have been  _me_. It should have been Jason and then Damian. It should have been  _blood_ , not some  _fucking kid you never wanted_.”

And God it  _hurts_ , these things tearing out him like fucking poison, like rancid bile he can finally vomit up, to get  _out of him_.

“And you did good. You did  _great_ , Bruce, dealing with me. You really did. You did the best you could under the circumstances,” and fuck,  _yes_ , he means it because Bruce was there for him when he was Robin, when Dad died, when his  _world_  was going to shit time and time again. Bruce put up with his crap more than anyone in his entire  _life_ —even his real Dad. “I appreciate it, all the shit from back then. You don’t—” and his chest hitches, but he grinds his teeth, straightens his back for it, “you don’t even  _know_  how much I needed you. How much I respect you, how much I wanted to be your partner and friend, and you gave me that, Bruce. You did that for me, but…but your  _real son_  has the cape now, just like it always should have been, and I  _understand_  that. This,” and his hands waffle back-and-forth while he looks away, tries to choke down the bitterness all these realizations still leave behind, “this is the way it should have happened. This is—” not  _okay_ , never  _fine_ , not really, “how it should be.”

But when he looks back, chances a glance, he jerks a little because Bruce’s expression is—

( _Is there some fear toxin somewhere? What the hell?_ )

The hands at Bruce’s sides are clenching into tight fists, his forearms cording, muscles getting  _tight_.

“How  _long_  have you felt like this?” The oldest vigilante demands in a low, dangerous voice, “how  _long_  do you think I’ve just been  _tolerating_  you? How could you  _even_ —  _Jesus_ , Tim.”

But _really_ , he’s the detective, right? “I forced my way in,” he deadpans, “you never  _chose_  me, Bruce.”

And even though he’s come a long way from  _that Robin_  to now, he’s still not fast enough to dodge Batman.

Nope. That’s not happening.

Because Bruce is across the span separating them in a skiff of shadows, literally picking him up off his feet with an arm around his waist below the healing whip marks, the other hand buried in the hair at the back of his head, pushing his face into Bruce’s neck and shoulder (and he’s  _shaking_ , Bruce,  _Batman,_ the unstoppable, the indomitable, is  _shaking_ ).

The move is so  _out_  of what he expected, so unpredictable, Tim’s eyes are wide, just blinking wetly, hands up to automatically brace himself on Bruce’s biceps.

“In…in the beginning, I was  _terrified_  of you,” Bruce blinks back his own wet eyes against the side of Tim’s too-long hair, “I was so scared of getting another innocent kid hurt, and you were…you were so  _smart_  and so brave. You were fearless, Tim. You were perfect for the job, but if I got you hurt, if I got you killed, if this world lost everything you are because of me and my Mission… then there would be no redemption. And I—” and Bruce grips him  _tighter_ , breathes in slowly, presses the side of his face into Tim’s hair harder, “I couldn’t lose you too. I couldn’t lose  _you_ , Tim.”

And  _that_. To hear that it wasn’t because of Jason Todd, to hear that he was valued back then for himself, has Tim’s heart give a painful throb in his chest, makes him hold on to Bruce like he was still  _that_  Robin.

“In the beginning, I  _didn’t_  want another kid in danger. I didn’t want another person’s  _life_  in my hands, I didn’t want anyone else to suffer because of my choice to do this, to be Batman, to be the crime fighter Gotham needed. So…so you-you were partially right. Back then, I  _didn’t_  want you involved. When you helped solve Dick’s case and-and you gave me no choice, Tim. You proved to me you were everything I needed Robin to be, everything Dick was, everything Jason was, everything Damian is learning to be. There was no way I could  _let you go_.”

And  _God_ , to hear that, just to  _hear that from Bruce_.

It’s more than he ever  _expected_.

“You’re  _more_  than just a kid in a cape. You always were. You were  _always_  the kid I needed, the kid that grounded me, the kid that was so much  _like me_  that you should have been a Wayne from the get-go. Just like Dick and Jason. You taught me just as much as I taught you, and even though I never wanted to overstep my boundaries, I never wanted to try and take your Dad away from you because—” and Bruce has to pause, has to let his eyes spill over because back then? Back then when Jack was an ass, was a damn terrible father, Bruce still couldn’t fight him because, “—because if mine had lived, even if he couldn’t understand me and what I grew into…I still would have at least  _had him_.”

And Tim bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, but it doesn’t stop his eyes from spilling over too, from his arms moving to wrap around Bruce’s shoulders and  _hold the fuck on_.

“But,” Bruce breathes in, rolls his eyes upward to try and calm down, “but when you still lost him, I…There was no question, Tim. There never was. You were my son just as much as his, and there was never a question as to where you belonged, that you have a  _home_  here. Not-not a room, not a cot in the Cave, not a locker for your gear. Your  _home_ , Tim. And I…I thought I was helping, letting you be the vigilante you needed to be. When you brought me back and it was Damian in the R, I… I understood why, but I still missed  _you_. I was still…upset with Dick, doing that without telling you, without giving you an opportunity to have your say. I was trying to give you time to stop hurting, to grow from it. I was trying not to push you too hard, to make it hurt  _worse_.”

Gentle movement, Bruce walking carefully toward the medical gurney still carrying Tim without even straining, still holding him close, still so painfully angry at himself for how  _long_  these things must have been buried in Tim’s psyche, how all of it must have pushed this young man to his  _breaking point_.

“And I…” Bruce closes his eyes briefly as it hitches, “and I failed you, Tim. I’m so sorry that I failed you as your Dad. I’m sorry you  _ever_  thought I only wanted to keep you from telling my secret because it was  _never about that_.”

But Tim, hanging there, limply, pain a dull red throb in his brain pain, gripping Bruce around the shoulders  _tight_ , hides his face away from the realizations, from the things he never  _imagined_.

Bruce folds himself down and rocks just slightly, comforting them both a little with the motion, “and you’re not going to believe all this. Not for a while. I  _know_  you, young man, and you’re going to need time to believe in me again, to believe in the family, and that’s-that’s okay. That’s completely understandable. I’ll give you as much time as you  _need_ , but god _dammit_ , Tim, I’m not letting you get that far out of my sight again. I’m not ever going to let you go. Whether you like it or not, you’re stuck with us, kid.”

He doesn’t laugh or chuckle, still in a state of shock since he really didn’t imagine  _this_  in his future, or well  _ever_.

After all this time, all the bad guys and terrible night, all the sacrifices and job well dones, he’d pretty much figured it was really…over.

This is a whole lot of unexpected that his brain pan can’t handle all at once. He needs time to think about it, to review the evidence.

“Give me a chance, Tim,” is breathed gently against his ear, “don’t give up on me yet. Please, don’t give up on me.”

“You’re an idiot,” he finds himself saying back with a scratchy throat, “I didn’t give up on you when the world thought you were  _dead_. Like I’m going to start now?”

And Bruce,  _B_ , the Batman, just breathes out in the quiet dim of the Cave, holds this almost nineteen-year-old on his lap like he used to do to Dick when the kid was on overload or he’s finally gotten Damian to just  _deal with it_.

“When I really believe you mean that, I’ll let you go back to Titan’s Tower.”

_That_  does earn a snicker because  _really, Bruce?_

“Can you just—” and the World’s Greatest Detective hesitates for a second, not sure how hard he wants to push when there’s been some progress made tonight.

“…you want to know about the spleen thing, don’t you?”

Bruce pats the uninjured leg a little and nods with Tim’s head tucked under his chin.

Closing his eyes, Tim sighs out through his nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments and whatnot. Feel free to talk to me.


	12. Day 7: Injury/Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s got this. It’s in the bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last thing was very heavy and painful but hopeful? So this is a submission for Tim Drake Week that is just not that. Hope you like it :D

Day 7: Healing/Injury

The warning is  _all there_  to read:

“Tim _my_.”

Oh.

Oh  _shit_.

The brief flash, building a contingency, is short and bittersweet because the only thing that can deflect Dick Grayson’s  _mother-hen_ instinct is literally the wrath of God.

Maybe an alien invasion.

Or not.

The  _point is_ , once Dick’s got a  _hint_  of hurt vigilante, the man is an unstoppable  _tank_ , tearing through cities, bad guys, good guys, unimaginable boxes of cereal, any and all Party Cities and obscure comic book shops to  _find the culprit_.

B couldn’t escape him in  _outer-fucking-space_.

So, there’s  _that_.

Take into account he’d been dodging the Titans  _also_ , and it’s just a hodgepodge of fuckery from  _there_  because this game thing they’ve got going on? The “Where’s Red?” game. It’s seriously balls, and is  _severely_  cramping his style.

Even Ra’s is refusing to pick up his phone calls, so you know shit has apparently gotten real on the good guy side of things.

Welp, he did his utmost  _best_  this time.

“Hi Big Wing,” he says over the comm in his ear and taps it to mute before kicking the thug out of his path and continuing on.

“ _What_  is this I hear about a really bad fight with the Fatal Five?”

_Dammit_.

“That about sums it up, really. A bad fight. A bad fight we totally won, by the way, thanks for asking.” He doesn’t make a sound as his left side twinges anyway, still raw under the bandages because he  _might_ have broken a few stitches or something.

Just  _not a big deal_. Not enough to warrant

_Dick’s Sixth Sense_

“I hear the Persuader nailed you pretty good,” all easy, just  _big brother Dick_. He’s not fooled for a second, oh  _hell no_.

He huffs and climbs up into the vents, ignoring the pain of the aforementioned injury (and  _yes_ , an atomic  _axe_  is a weapon no one should try taking on without a serious enjoyment for  _pain_ ) taps the comm back on and talks low enough to still listen for the usual signals of  _main bad guy HQ — >This way_.

“I deflected his axe with repurposed Luthor tech. The calibrations weren’t that hard.” Which is completely, totally, unequivocally  _true_. After the first hit took out a good piece of him because he’s good, but no one is  _that_ good.

Dick hums, fake and telling, making him freeze right in the middle of the vent. “Oh? Well, that’s fine. Knew you could do it, Timmy, but you’ve got to be  _taking it easy_  after a fight like that,  _right_?”

“Sure am,” behind the whiteouts, he gets a  _load_  of very carefully stacked canisters in a storage room, which is just exactly what he’d been looking for. Almost. Bad guys too. He really liked wrapping up all the loose ends in a case before he puts it to bed. “Doing a little maintenance to the mainframe, cleaning up my old notes, doing some data analysis. All pretty tame.”

_HA! ALSO TRUE_.

He’s got this. It’s in the  _bag_.

Mutes the comm and gingerly removes the vent cover, swinging in easy but the damn side pulls anyway. His wrist computer scans the labels, computes the explosive power in the room (there’s an app for that) while voices pass by, talking about the deal going down in a few hours.

(Yeah, bad news for you there.)

“Good, good,” Dick is saying absently as the keypad case comes off and he works a little magic to change the access codes. “I’m  _glad_ you’re resting up, Tim. Taking care of yourself like you should since infections are terrible for you.”

Well, the thing about that is–

He was running out of  _time_  here. Yes, he took his antibiotics, but maybe he might be just, you know, feeling it a  _little_.

Wisely, he taps the comm on just enough to “mmhmm,” his way through it.

“I mean, I would really  _hate it_  if you were working a case right now like that. Just, that would upset me  _so much_ , Tim.”

He pauses as the door slides open softly, thinking for a second he might not be able to bullshit his way out of this one.

His vigilante sense is tingling.

Not in any  _good_ kind of way.

But, the clock is ticking, and he strafes out of the weapons room to the door shutting behind him. Cracks his knuckles and his neck before it’s time to take to the shadows, do this as quickly and quietly as possible.

“You’d be out there.  _All alone_. Without your team since they’re all taking a well-deserved vacay, Tim. They’re not out doing anything  _strenuous_.”

He sucks in a breath, presses flat into the shadows until the first with a very nice AK-47 come right up on him–

And is down for the count.

“Hey, I just got a really good ping,” he zip ties the guy and keeps moving, “let me call you back when I get something–”

“And you’d just be making it  _worse_ , Tim,” Dick goes on, “because you don’t know your limitations sometimes–”

_Shit. Here we go_.

Second and third armed mercenaries go down seamlessly. All kinds of winning right here.

By the time Dick has gotten somewhere around the, “and with what we  _do_ , Timmy, you have to  _understand_  the lines you can cross with your body and your health,” he has put down twelve, maybe fifteen, ready to come up on the big boss for the night so he can just get this over with and head back to the safe house for a nice long soak in a tub.

When the main doors open, however–

He sighs because he  _really_  hates when it’s twenty to one. Not that he doesn’t like those odds, but it’s still not his preferred ending of the night.

There’s a whole lot of guns cocking, shiny barrels pointed at him, and a sharp flash of white is his teeth in the glow because he’s smiling at how  _cute_  that is.

His gauntlet spits out a whirly bird, other hand full already of pellets, and it’s  _time to rock_.

“…but the  _best thing_  to keeping yourself on the up-and-up, Timmy? Something  _you_  taught all of us?”

The room  _explodes_  in a cacophonous mess of shit just  _breaking_. Everywhere. Shit is breaking  _all over the place_ , and he didn’t even  _move_.

His mouth drops open a little as the Outlaws and a  _dozen_  members of the Justice League form a half circle around the  _busted out wall_ and face  _his bad guys_  with a whole lot of  _yes_   _please, I’ll have this dance_.

Nightwing is in the center, celly held up to his ear, and the expression on his face under the domino is downright  _murderous_.

“You need to know when to call in some  _friends_.”

The ensuing fight is just absolutely  _bullshit_.

Every time. Every. Time. he jumps in somewhere to take someone down, another superhero catches him and  _throws him out of the way_.

He understood Hood doing it. He understood B. He understood Flash. He  _even_  understood Superman and Wonder Woman, but when it’s  _fucking Booster Gold?_

That is  _beyond_  insulting.

He got here  _first_  for fuck’s sake and already called goddamned  _dibs_!

“Stay out of this or Batman is going to kick my ass,” Booster just lays it out, “and I would much rather not do that.”

His utter frustration is compounded when Cyborg is downloading all their data and sending it to the Watchtower for analysis, the baddies in charge are already being questioned and a team sent out to meet the buyers, the weapons are being safely transported away, and just!

_Dibs_!

But instead, he’s got to contend with the stalking Nightwing, growling low and dangerous under his breath. He doesn’t even get enough time to fight being pretty much thrown over one of the older vigilante’s shoulders.

“Dammit! Put me  _down_.”

“Oh? You think  _that’s_  going to happen?” Nightwing growls in  _that tone_ and send shivers, just  _all the shivers_.

“I’m  _fine_ , I swear. I was on a time limit, I didn’t–!”

One powerful kick and the door is banging open, reinforced locks breaking apart. The Batplane is waiting, warmed up and ready to go.

“C’mon! I don’t need all this!  _There were only twenty of them, dammit_.”

And  _nope_. He sees a week full of bed rest and  _cuddles_  with his name written  _all over it_  apparently because even the most  _minute_ movement had Nightwing’s hand clamping down hard on the back of his thighs, very, very close to a pressure point that will put him out for hours.

_Shit._   _Just, shit_.

“I should warn you in advance, though,” as the leap up puts them in the cockpit, course already set for Gotham, “Alfred? Is even more  _pissed_  than I am, Timmy.”

His eyes go wide behind the whiteout, and his scramble to  _run_  is thwarted as the plane starts to rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. Dick Grayson is ALWAYS going to have a Sixth Sense, so help me.


	13. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He literally gets the first sip at wonderful, blessed caffeine—before the glowy circle of light just appears in his damn kitchen, illuminating a gentle red that looks totally ominous and terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long, long time ago, someone asked me for something like this and I was a bit squeamish about it, partially because I was so utterly pissed off about the Red Robin costume in Rebirth (Fuck YOU DC) and partially because getting some of my Tims in one basket is going to be rough. I think I’ve got it, so bear with me okay?

Convergence

He literally gets the first sip at wonderful, blessed caffeine—before the glowy circle of light just _appears_ in his _damn_ kitchen, illuminating a gentle red that looks totally ominous and terrifying.

His mug falls to the linoleum with a crash and spilled heaven.

Welp, there goes _that_ ‘Uncle of the Year’ mug. Dammit. Layla worked so _hard_ on it.

“Dick! Jay! Got a little _sitch_ in here.” He yells, frozen to the spot where the circle has him penned in at the counter, eyes wide with _what the fuck is this now_?

In all his time as a doctor to, you know, vigilantes and superheroes, he’s never seen anything like _this_. If he’s learned anything in that time, it’s curiosity might take an appendage. Watch your ass around things that might smell of alien tech or evil bad guys (that jewel was from some guy name Booster. Just _really?_ ).

He must have sounded as desperate as he realistically _feels_ because bare feet are pounding down the hallway of his penthouse just as the circle flares crimson and starts to suck him in.

He knows he yells something back at his vigilante boyfriends because he does get a warped sound of them calling for him just as he gets sucked inside.

**

The pain in his head is _real_ when he finally comes to with a groan.

The hard cement floor isn’t doing him any favors.

Like, at _all_.

But memory kicks in and Dr. Drake is pushing himself up on weak arms, hair in his face, looking around with wide, calculating eyes before he realizes—

He isn’t alone.

The doctor is up on his feet, blinking, turning on one bare heel to take in the other four bodies lying haphazardly in heaps on the grungy floor around him, all in various states of _look at those birdies_.

He has approximately ten seconds to take in the clothes, tech, and other miscellaneous gear, but gets it in five. At this point in the game, he’s very familiar with things like utility belts, armored tunics, and the like, so he _knows_ what he’s looking at. The question is really whether or not he’s in with heroes or terrible bad guys, and those answers won’t be forthcoming until they’re all out of la la land.

Which _could be_ enough time to steal shit from their utility belts to use against them _or_ get them all the fuck out of here.

It’s 50/50 really.

But his legs are already moving him across the cold floor because assessment takes precedent over neat potentially fatal gadgets, taking a knee beside the first one that has a full cowl. Since he has some _experience_ with cowls, he knows the right place to wiggle his fingers in to get a bead on the his pulse (until the doctor _knows_ for sure, bad guy or good guy, no trying to get into the suits probably riddled with security traps unless it’s _go time_ , but the utility belt doesn’t shock the ever-loving _fuck_ out of him, so he already has a plan). Breathing looks good, no signs of medical distress, no tears in the suit, no bloodstains. The harness is pretty cool, but that insignia? What the hell is _that_ supposed to be?

Whatever. This potential bad guy checks out, so on to the next one.

The second has on a domino with the whiteouts down and an odd-looking cape, like panels or something? Yeah, okay, whatever. This guy gets to be Mr. Terrible Style. He gets the same careful check— and oddly enough has the same insignia on his utility belt but a completely different kind of harness (so maybe they’re a group, like the JL or the Titans? Or the Legion of Evil…? Shit, he is _not_ up to playing Pet Doctor to a group of baddies. _Again_. It didn’t end well last time—you know, for the _bad guys_ ).

Okay then. Take a breath, Doc. Plenty of time to unravel the fuckery later.

The third has a similar red and black thing going on, same damn insignia, but he has an additional _wicked_ cowl-like, almost helmet thing that is shaped more like a bird’s face and head with a beak than questionable unconscious guy number one (his cowl is just straight-up _unimpressive_. C’mon bad guys need to have better imagination than _that_ ). The lenses, he notices are red rather than the usual white, so well there’s _that_. The suit, however, doesn’t have the armored tunic covering a bodysuit, but is just modified with light armor instead. It reminds him of Jason’s Red Hood body suit, the armor in the potentially fatal places. Good call.

The last body breathing is completely _out_ of the pattern ( _one of these things is not like the others…_ damn you, Sesame Street, well- _played_ ). He’s got some standard black, pocketed pants and heavy boots, like ninja suit-ish or something. The plain rope is coiled over his hip from a pocketed belt that doesn’t look as advanced as the others. He doesn’t have any insignia Tim can plainly see. He’s also not wearing gauntlets and only half-fingered leather gloves, so checking his wrist for his pulse is easier than the cowls. (Bandaged fingers, not bleeding badly enough to be a problem, but he clocks the deets for later).

“Oooww _fuck_ ,” comes from over his shoulder while he’s trying to feel out the black suit in a non-pervy way and see if there might be, you know, _blood_ or something because it is seriously dim in this little dungeon-y vacay spot, and Tim spins abruptly, eyes darting around for something to use as a weapon or maybe to duck behind so he can eavesdrop to figure out _what the fuck he’s dealing with_.

The cowled man sits up, rubbing the back of his head, the whiteouts going around the closed-off room—

And lands right on the frozen doctor.

“I’m unarmed, don’t kick my ass,” he puts up both palms in that _just a civilian, don’t kill me_ pose. “If you’re hurt, I’m a doctor, and maybe if you know _how_ I got here and _why_ , that would be just _super_ helpful at this juncture in the glowy circle kidnapping plot. Though I am _seriously_ not the person you’re looking for. I have a sweet fire escape, but no nifty suit. Sorry ‘bout it.” He def does _not_ mention the part where letting him _go_ would be in the guy’s best interest since his wonderful significant others can get a little _testy_ if he’s in things like, well, immediate fucking _peril_. He likes the baddies to be _surprised_ when Nightwing and the Red Hood bust down there door.

The guy’s mouth drops open a little and just a _blink_ before awake good/bad dude is literally _right in front of him_.

If he hadn’t seen Dick and Jay _move_ when they’re in the masks, he would have been totally more fanboy-ing it _up_ than he is right now.

“Holy _shit_ , you’re fast!” Tim eyes the person that could probably snap his spine with, like, a pinky or in some other crazily specific way. “Seriously, this is a mistake. I’m a damn good surgeon, but like, _dungeons?_ , I got nothing.”

The cowled vigilante, still feeling fractured as _fuck_ with the waking up in _who know where_ , chuffs a laugh because what _the shit_ did he get into _this time_? (Well, looking at _himself_ , it’s going to be ‘What is multiversing for $1000, Alex.’) He just has no room on his already full _plate_ for things like, random portals showing up to take him right off the back of Jay’s Ducati from behind (which, come to think of it, is actually a nice little _relief_ with whatever is going _on_ with those two and the almost, sort-of, _could have been_ maybe trying to-to kiss him...or something?) when there’s some crime fighting going down. Terrorists and meta-inducing tech are keeping him nice and busy fuck-you very much.

But this other him that is a little shorter, eyes going unconsciously to his utility belt like he’s making a _plan_ is probably going to need some _deets_ before he’s in a fight-for-his-life essentially against, you know, _himself_. One hand goes to the cowl, pressing what he needs to deactivate the security—

And pulls it off.

That leave Dr. Tim looking right into his own _face_.

“What. The. **_Fuck_**?!” He scrabbles back, almost tripping over his own feet and the unconscious guy on the ground when **this guy** _that is basically him_ , moves so fast _again_ , and grabs his arm to keep him from falling.

“Hey. Hi there. Tim, right? Yeah, me too. Welcome to the multiverse. Really, it’s scientifically fucked up, but a good lesson for the kids on what _not_ to do with space/time.”

The doctor sputters, “multi- _what now?!_ Wh— I— This is...this isn’t...this isn’t _possible_.”

The cowled version of him chuckles a little, grinning while rubbing the back of his head, “first time multiversing? It’s cool, you’ll get used to it. Things to remember: dick bag aliens suck in all realities, Luthor is totally a tool no matter where you go, and don’t fuck with the Red Hood just in case he’s still a little _pissed_ about the whole Robin thing. That? Was not the best lesson.”

Now his brain is a puddle of mush, thanks... _him_. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m a... _you’re a vigilante, too?_ Like-like Nightwing and the Red Hood and-and _Batman_?”

And the doctor swallows hard because—

( _He_ was Robin).

This vigilante version of him completely _stops_. Just. Creepy complete stillness.

“Uh, hello? You with me, uh... _Tim?_ ”

The second groan is followed by, “it’s okay, give him a minute. He’s probably not used to a world where we’re _not_ part of the Bat-clan.” The one with the weird cape is sitting up looking around. “Well, it could still be a post-Apocalyptic world, but it’s anyones’ guess at this juncture.”

The voice is completely _his_ yet again and Dr. Drake’s eyes go to the other two still _out_.

“You too?” He asks, mind _blown_ , “another…” his hands waffle back and forth, “another Tim Drake? I mean, _all of you_ are Tim Drake?”

“Seems that way,” the other stands up, stretches his back and goes to the impressive computer on his wrist. Sooo, half-robots are _totally_ a possibility maybe? Ives is going to shit _kittens_. “I was already kind of in a multiverse where some alien assholes took over the planet. We just had a massively awesome war and sent them packing, so I _really_ didn’t expect to end up anywhere else but my original universe. This is kind of...strange. I checked the coordinates on the portal _three times_ just to make sure.”

“H-how is this...possible, I mean, the _physics_ don’t even support something like this! The-the doppelganger effect and-and!”

Dominoed Tim just waves the doctor into silence, “like I said, I was already in a multiverse, and two Tims can exist in the same space. Well, obviously more than _two_ , but it is what it is.” He goes back to the computer on his wrist, trying to get his head in _this_ game after what he’d just left behind (that version of Dick holding him up, telling him he’ always have a _place_ there if he ever wanted to come _back_. That version of him welcoming him with _open fucking arms_ if he did want to stay; a world where he would _never_ have to go for a weapon against Jason Todd, and fuck, _fuck_ …Dami was his _brother_.)

De-cowled Tim gives the doctor his attention after subtly moving to check the other two still breathing but out cold, “think of it like this: every major decision you make could go a few different ways. For each option, a separate reality breaks off. These _what-ifs_ create a thing called the multiverse, multiple universes with sometimes subtle, sometimes catastrophic differences.” He gestures to the dominoed Tim who gives a little wave.

The doctor blinks hard, his hands curl into fists by his sides, “so there’s a reality out there somewhere...there’s a reality where I let Nightwing bleed to death on my fire escape or called an ambulance and got his ident compromised, or a reality where—”

“Whoa,” dominoed Tim looks up from his wrist computer and raises the whiteouts, “bled to death on your _fire escape?_ ”

“That’s...that’s how I kind of met him in the mask. _Anyway_ —”

“So you’re not—?”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” he shrugs, which is only _slightly_ untrue. “I’m not,” and he waves a hand at the two of them, “this. What you are. I went to Med School instead of Crime Fighting Academy or whatever.”

De-cowled Tim laughs out loud, shaking his head. “I was Robin first, five and a half years. The new name is Red Robin, and I’m with the Titans more than in Gotham—” but he pauses with it because, welp, that’s not really as true as it _used_ to be, is it?

Domino Tim shrugs, goes back to his wrist computer, but his shoulders are tight, “same mostly. Robin, whole lot of crime fighting, Red Robin, and I’m exclusively with the Titans. I only got back to Gotham if the _call_ goes out, and even then, I fight like fuck and go back home. This ah, alien multiverse thing just happened to...come up unexpectedly.”

De-cowled Tim gasps in a breath, “whoa, do you mean the—”

“Insurgents,” domino Tim replies softly, carefully.

“Wow. The Mind Trap is _such_ a pain in the dick.”

“Tell me about it. Gotta love when it’s Hood and the current Robin inside because _those two_.”

“Oh _fuck_ , dude are you even okay right now? How long ago was—?” De-cowled Tim grips the other vigilante version by the forearm, bending just slightly over him while the doctor watches, wonders what these aliens, these _Insurgents_ are to them and why they’re so dangerous.

“Fine,” the domino replies, but his voice is... _off_. “As soon as we figure out how the hell we got here, I’ll be even better.”

“Okay,” the cowled Tim starts slowly, seeing maybe more than he _should_ , but he respects his other self trying to keep his shit together when he’s very, _very_ obviously _not_ fine. Now isn’t the time for it, instead it’s time to get their fractured thoughts together and figure out all the main points, “All right Doc, tell us what you were doing and what happened to bring you here.”

Still checking on the two other unconscious vigilantes, he does just that, mentions calling for his boyfriends before the “portal” (and this? _Is his life_ right now) sucked him in.

De-cowled Tim has a small grin on his face while he surveys the cell they’re in, and domino Tim’s frown gets painful while he’s trying to get some kind of results on his computer.

“There’s a few things we can work with, but I’ve got no obvious feeds here. We need to wait until the others come to before we make a move.”

“Good plan.”

“Agreed. I don’t have anything I would need to assess them any further. I don’t see any signs of distress yet, so we’re good so far.”

Both vigilantes start digging in their utility belts, but the doctor holds up a hand, “the supplies aren’t the problem. X-ray, CAT scans, _those_ type of things would be _stellar_. But, I’m all out at the moment because smart bad guys are a pain in the ass.”

“True story,” the two Tims echo.

“All right, so from the readings just before I hitched a ride here, it looks like a disruption in space/time—” the domino Tim taps on his computer.

“Like a shockwave,” the other Tim supplies.

“—could have crossed two paths, but _four_ of them? That’s—”

“Statistically impossible,” the third one with the sweet helmet-cowl is up, bracing himself on his hands. Dr. Drake catches something off immediately, the way his head tilts to the side.

“Exactly,” the other two say in tandem _again_ , seriously shaking him _up_.

“Someone probably planned this,” de-cowled Tim looks at them, “we’re here for a reason.”

“As much as I’d like to stay and figure out _why_ , I have a really important meeting to attend tomorrow,” the helmeted Tim gets to his feet, his body a strange kind of taunt.

In his peripheral, he sees the other two Tims figure it out, too.

Dr. Drake crosses his arms over his chest, “the room we’re in is concrete or stone, floors and 100-foot or so ceilings. There’s a transparent door to your right, approximately twenty feet, no discernable way out.”

The red lenses swing to him but stray just over his shoulder. The blind crime fighter smirks at him, “did you say you’re _not_ a vigilante?”

He huffs out since well, he’s the _only_ one apparently, “I’m a surgeon. I just...have other hobbies. Like dating crime fighters, and playing Pet Doctor for superhero groups. You just...you aren’t looking _at_ me.”

The other two Tims nod in agreement.

“You were balancing like the King Snake when you stood up,” de-cowled Tim adds almost gently.

Domino Tim folds his arms over his chest, “the fingertips on your gloves are...modified. You can probably read braille through them, can’t you?”

The fourth grins wider and laughs a little because, well, trust someone like _himself_ to get the tech. “I made a special pad to help me hack again, too. It’s good stuff.”

“Like you really _need_ it?” The de-cowled one grins.

“Always have a plan.”

The three vigilantes share a half-assed laugh as the fourth Tim removes the specially made cowl.

“ _Fuck_ ,” domino Tim blinks, “I think I can hazard a _guess_.”

“We’re all probably aware the Wanderer is an ass hat.” And he already _knows_ what they’re looking at, the milky haze over his unfocused eyes. The radar net gives him good intel, outlines and impressions, not depth or detail. For that, he moves closer to the gathering, listening for the sounds of air rushing or gears grinding, anything to give them an out while placing the smallest differences in each figure. The doctor one smells like sandalwood and antiseptic. The one to his right with a bare face sounds oddly...calm. The contentment is in his voice. The one already in another multiverse _did_ come from a war, the scent of the fight, the heat of pain not on his _skin_ makes his voice get tight at moments (well, as the one that lost his _sight_ trying to get B back from time—he totally _gets_ that type of pain because one of them...maybe even two of them could realistically _stand_ to be anywhere near Dick).

And him? He’s just the guy that’s going to find their way out of here so they can all get a little bit of _why the utter fuck_?

“He took out your eyes instead of your spleen,” domino Tim observes, swallowing down the situation he just _left_ , the two from _that world_ where he could have _stayed_ and helped rebuild—

_Not the time for regrets, asshole. Let’s just focus on the here and now_.

“I would have been better with the spleen, but it’s fine at this point.” And the de-cowled vigilante exchanges an eye slide with the dominoed one because it’s very _obvious_ the guy is bullshitting them (but well, who else would catch it _other than_ the dudes that lie to Batman?) “Luckily for me, Tam is the most bitchin’ PA _ever_.”

“She keeps _everyone’s_ shit together.”

“She multitasks _like a boss_.”

“Glad she rocks us in most universes. Stellar. So, how about we figure out how to get the hell out of here so she doesn’t eviscerate us? I, for one, am not on _that_ train.”

“Uh,” Dr, Drake blinks, feeling like he’s watching _tennis_ or something, _Wanderer? Losing a spleen or sight? Who the fuck is Tam?_ But the other three converge in a circle to start making _plans_ , the de-cowled Tim pulling him along in by his bicep.

Domino Tim gestures to his half-destroyed wrist computer, “the only readings I’m getting are nil and none. I can’t place _where_ or _when_ we are in the time stream. I’ve got readings on the physical layout, but...that’s it.”

Since his tech is obviously _boss_ enough to get him through another multiverse, the others realize it might just be a step closer to _oh shit_ time.

“That doesn’t sound any kind of promising,” the last one of them is finally up and on his feet, holding his abdomen gingerly, “I, for one, am not a fan of the decor. Too medieval for my taste.”

The other three tense immediately, subtle slides of gloves in belts, the move for a bo, the shift of feet, and sway of hip for a _righteous_ roundhouse to the face.

De-cowled Tim groans a little, “shit, I _knew_ I was going to go villain in at least _one_ reality—”

“That costume isn’t going to make good guys quake in their boots, _dude_ —”

“You’re not instilling confidence here. I expected better _style_ from a bad guy,” the sightless vigilante sighs.

“Whoa, _villain?_ ” The dark suited Tim throws up both hands, “how fucking _insulting_. I am _not_ a bad guy, I’m a _solo_ vigilante _fuck you very much_ ”

Three of the five Tim’s eyes are _huge_.

“Wait, so you didn’t start out with the Bats?” De-cowled Tim is blinking because, well _yeah_ , he could totally see a world where he decided to be bad ass on his _own_.

Dark Tim’s eyes swing over, whiteouts raised, “I was a Bat at one time,” but his his voice is clipped, _tight_.

“Did...did you take on something other than Red Robin when Dick—” Domino Tim takes an anxious step forward because _yes_ , that? So many _possibilities_. (And what would _his_ team of loveable _assholes_ care if he...if he changed his ident, too? The Bats, _his world’s_ Dick, Jason, B, and Dami wouldn’t give two _fucks_ anyway).

The dark Tim glances away, his expression going completely neutral, “it’s...a long story. I was that name for about a minute, just long enough to peg B down and bring him back from random _time fuckery_. Gave it up right after.”

De-cowled Tim straightens a little, “were you Red Robin when you took out Ra’s and saved Wayne Enterprises?”

The dark Tim blinks and shakes his shaggy head, “I—I didn’t become CEO, not of Wayne Enterprises. I brought B back right after I took the League down. He was able to prove himself legally alive and save WE on his own. He sure as fuck didn’t need my help to do it.”

“That sucks,” blind Tim is already turned toward the creaks and groans of their prison, trying to get a peg on what could possibly be outside. “I’m not a fan of it, but Dick wasn’t taking up the CEO reign, so—” he give it a _there you have it_ flourish.

The awful tension in dark Tim’s spine tells a _hell_ of a lot more than he probably means to,“Dick and I... I’ll leave it alone. The details don’t matter, but needless to say it’s _fine_. I know where my place is, where it’s always _been_.”

“Please don’t tell me Hood laid it out for you with sharp, _pointy_ things?” Domino Tim bites out, his upper body tense with pain of his injuries and old burdens.

Dark Tim’s teeth flash white in a dangerous grin, “up-close-and-personal right after I found Bruce. He wanted to _congratulate_ me on how smart it was to get out before they dumped me in the garbage, which is probably true anyway.”

The doctor’s eyes are wide, his stomach churning with the bitter, angry acceptance right there for him to see. The fact two of the Tims reach for a the thin, nearly imperceptible scar at their throats gives him enough detail to see where things for them went. His fist tightens when he catches the moves, hastily aborted before it could be _obvious_.

“I’m sorry,” he interjects quietly, making the other four turn to him, “I’m sorry you don’t have what I do. Those two...are good to me. Better than good. Granted, I patch them up on a regular. Titans and JL too. Sometimes the Outlaws, but when—when it was the Joker...they came for me. They didn’t stop trying to find me, so...yeah, I’m sorry you don’t have that.”

Dark Tim straightens, tries to be neutral, “if they’ve got your back, then good on you, Doc. I’m better being out of the Bats actually. It’s probably something I should have done when Dad died, given up the R, let Damian the _fuck_ have it.” He shakes his head a little.

“My life...is _better_ now’,” Dr. Drake admits before any of the others can give into their own curiosity, “Before it was...it was _fine_. I worked, and took care of Steph and Layla, I gamed with Ives, and did the hardcore things on my time off. It was...it was a good _life_ and I made it for myself. But when I found Dick laying out on my fire escape, dying, I...nothing would ever be the same. I don’t think I could go back to _before_ , not now that I have them,” he shrugs. “It’s the best relationship I’ve ever had.”  And it’s true enough that he can’t imagine a world where he’s _not_ totally in love with Dick or Jay, and watching the others get anxious or angry at the mention of his name (except for the cowled one, so maybe hope?) makes his chest tight.

The dark Tim takes a few steps closer, tilts his chin so the doctor doesn’t have to look up, “I hope,” the unnamed vigilante begins hoarsely, “I hope they love you like you _deserve_ for the rest of your life, and never turn you the fuck _out_.”

The doctor sucks in a breath, his chest aching.

“I hope Dick...realizes what he’s _got_.” And the _this time_ hovers above him, around him because even though he’s tried to move _on_ , tried to keep putting one foot in front of the other, tried to keep one step ahead of the pain, the betrayal, the _loss_ like it’s his fucking _spleen_ , it kills him that in some other world, he gets to have it...and _keep_ it.

De-cowled Tim crosses his arms and glances at the doctor, “Dick... some of us may have a sore spot with Dick. He ah, he took the Robin mantle in a slightly douchey way. There was...a lot of reasons behind it, but still.”

The dark Tim laughs, a very _unfunny_ ha-ha. “Sore spot,” _he literally **fucked me** before he took my cape_ , “sounds...about right.” It sends a chill through the doctor, makes the blind one’s jaw tighten enough that a muscle jumps, makes the de-cowled one... _blush_?

“My multiverse one is better than the one from my universe,” the domino Tim shrugs, but it hitches as does his voice when he tries to be light, to be _funny,_ “but they thought their Tim was seriously dead, so...There’s _that_.”

And the weak interruption breaks up the Tim Drake pow-wow: “Sss’okay. Mine...mine does too,”

The voice echoes off the walls, makes the vigilantes strike really impressive, dangerous-looking poses before they all just _vanish_ , and the doctor’s mouth drops open because _holy shit_.

_Holy shit._

There’s worlds out there where he...He was _Robin_. (And the point hits _home_ when he sees the version in familiar red, gold, and green, when he _realizes_ this is what the rest of them might have looked like at one time--that all of _them_ wore the R). And he’s very carefully, very methodically _not_ going to think about all the old pain and injuries— _lack of spleen and eye sight_ —that are obviously marring each of the Tims he’s met in some way

Mentally, while the others gather around the transparent door keeping them in the cell, the doctor reboots because fanboying over _himself_ is just totally pathetic.

He makes his way to the transparent caging them in, the light dim and just enough to make out another cell across from them with someone chained up with some impressive looking manacles inside.

“Whoa,” two of the four Robins manage when they see the last Tim restrained and out of their reach. He looks beaten and battered, bloody and... _young_.

“He’s still Robin apparently,” domino Tim muses, bends his knees and leaps up to hang from the top of the door, looking for a way to get them out.

The youngest spits a mouthful of blood, “never Robin. R-Red Robin.”

The vigilantes all look at him and the expressions aren’t...positive.

De-cowled Tim’s jaw goes _tight_ , a muscle jumping, “you don’t say? Too bad, I have a lot of good memories beating the shit out of the Rogue Gallery. They’re not fans of the R either.”

“Got to love how they fucked up _my suit_.” Dark Tim nudges the blind Tim, whispers a few deets about the younger version of them across the prison space. “A few details are off, but it’s the red tunic and green tights, black boots, with two shuriken R’s over the heart.”

“That’s pretty fucking _insulting_ ,” the blind vigilante, folds his arms and lowers the radar array back over his face, hits the system to check if his gear can find some _inconsistencies_.

Domino Tim just sneers, “right? ‘Never Robin’ my _ass_. I _bled_ for that fucking cape, for _that name_ , man. That is just some bullshit B pulled on you isn’t it? Oh, I can’t have another Robin after Jason fucking _died_ , so have another—”

“M-my call,” the youngest coughs out, his eyes bloodshot behind the domino. “Didn’t wanna be in those boots.”

“Fuck _that_ ,” all of the vigilantes echo as they climb, jump, move, and try to figure a way to get to the next one.

“It’s okay, I was never Robin either,” Dr. Drake throws in, also looking for a way to get through the door, “but just keep talking, okay? We’re going to get to you soon.”

“Oz is going to come back,” the youngest of them says quietly, “and when he _does_ , we all going to die.”

**

He catches it without the help of the radar array, his enhanced senses painfully alert with the bloody Red Robin in the prison cell across from theirs in need of medical attention (and isn’t it just a _bonus_ that one of them really _is_ a doctor? Not a vigilante, but better than a villain any day). But the barely-there sigh nabs his attention just as he’s climbing up the far wall to try looking for some hidden catch because, well, no vents _dammit_.

“Got it,” he deadpans, shoving the end of his grapple in the ceiling and letting out just a little line. He jumps it get enough momentum for both feet to hit. The others are gathering below him when he gives it a second go, feeling whatever material used to patch over the old line start to give. One more hit and he breaks through for the blessed feel of openness.

“Don’t you love it when a plan comes together?” Domino Tim follows up after, leaning down to offer a hand to the doctor.

“Please tell me you don’t just make witty banter back-and-forth while you fight crime?” He takes the offered hand, slightly amazed at how this version is seriously back-bending like a _boss_.

“Are you _kidding?_ ” De-cowled Tim grins up at them while the doctor scrambles for some kind of footing since, you know, he’s rocking _pjs_ and shit. “It’s really the most effective weapon in my arsenal.”  

“Aside from bombs and multiple types of fighting styles,” dark Tim fills in, standing slightly back, the lenses in his domino still up.

“That too, but the banter takes real thought.”

“Bombs are more fun.”

De-cowled Tim jumps up into the vent, “I think you’re my favorite. We should make bombs together if this whole situation pans out for us.”

Dark Tim might chuff a laugh as he follows.

Once the dominoed Tim lowers him down to the blind one waiting to get him to ground level, the doctor is taking off to other cell, looking over the battered younger version of him ( _them_ ) with a critical eye.

“You’ve got some bad contusions,” he notes, “want to tell us about this Oz guy and what the hell happened to you?”

“Oz...isn’t a fan of my come-backs.” The younger Red Robin replies, the one that might actually _belong_ here.

Wherever here is.

Blind Tim pulls the cover off the door’s control panel and flips out the hack-pad. As observed, the tips of his gloves _are_ thinner than the rest by a _mile_ , allowing him to feel the movement of the pad as it spits out code.

De-cowled Tim kneels by the doctor, flipping out some impressive-looking tool that looks very similar to his bat-a-thing in his vigilante-only doctor’s bag.

“Okay, I have plenty of pocket-space in these pj’s,” his eyes don’t leave the hurt vigilante manacled down, already plotting where to start once they get inside. He flaps a hand at the others around him working on the door. “Give me stuff in case we get separated. Like things that will explode without killing me preferably.”

“Almost,” blind Tim is working with the radar array focused on the youngest of them. “There’s a bypass to trigger an alarm.”

“Of course there is,” the others grumble.

Domino Tim, leaner than the rest, is standing on Dark Tim’s shoulders while the two of them re-direct the security systems embedded in the door frames where most people _probably_ wouldn’t clock them.

Dark Tim reaches in a pocket of his belt, and shoves a handful of pellets at the doctor, “keep them _all_ separated if you can, but you can tell these because they have one indent for your thumb.”

“What do they do?”

“Smoke. If you get pinned down, put your thumb in the indent, press, and throw it on the ground. Got it?”

“Yup.”

Domino Tim pulls something out of a compartment of his harness, “here. This is a grapple. Point it at a wall or something mostly _stable_ , thumb here, press and hold on. It’ll kick back at you when it fires, but it’ll fix in where you point it. Aim high. This button will reel you in so whatever you do, _don’t let it go_.”

“Thanks. Get-the-fuck-away tech is really nice to have.”

“Security protocol deactivated,” blind Tim informs and holds up slim, cylindrical thing. It looks like one of Nightwing’s escrima sticks, only shorter. He works the coding with his other hand. “This is a collapsible bo. Even if you don’t really know how to use one like the rest of us probably do, I have _faith_ you’ll be a natural.”

The doctor takes it as the door gives a few boops and starts to slide up.

“Jackpot,” two of the Tims deadpan.

Domino Tim hops off Dark Tim’s shoulders, but even though, you know, _vigilantes_ , the doctor is the first one through the door.

The others are cautious while he’s kneeling by the obviously aching vigilante tied down with only his suit and a very distinct lack of weapons, gauntlets, and gloves.

“It’s mostly bumps and bruises,” the teenager informs the doctor, “getting out of the chains would be just _stellar_.”

“What,” the doctor chuffs back, looking around for approximately two seconds before he snags a whirlybird out of De-cowled Tim’s belt and starts to cut through the impressive if not torn armor, “need to work on your _sweet_ dance moves, Tim? I think the party can _wait_ until we make sure you’re not going to pass out, right?”

The hurt vigilante snickers, winces, and snickers again.

De-cowled Tim is already working on manacle number one while domino Tim is working on manacle number two. Blind Tim is skimming the room for any camera, vents, scary secret passageways, something _else_ that could be thwarted by some meddling _kids_.

“Okay, this is going to hurt,” the doctor warns in advance, lifting the vigilante’s leg, “but the good part about it is really,” he jerks fast and efficient with sure hands, earning a muffled cry from the youngest, “is that I can do it _fast_. Sorry about that, Tim.”

“S--S’okay, thanks. That already feels less like _ass_.”

“No sign of your gear,” blind Tim crosses his arms in frustration, red lenses swinging over to their general location.

Dark Tim gives a wave, “I’m going to check the other cell. We might have another prisoner to worry about.”

The hurt Red Robin grunts, “he’s got other heroes stuck throughout the building. N-Not sure how many. Only said it was interrupting his plan.”

“You were getting too close so he nabbed you,” de-cowled Tim puts the thing back over his eyes while handing the doctor supplies from his belt.

“Mmhm, think he...think he’s trying to--” a long sigh out and the vigilante slumps against the manacles.

“Shit!” blind Tim takes a knee on the other side, “hey, c’mon. You have to wake up. Tell us what you know about his plan.”

“He’s out. Concussion, contusions. No serious bleeders or broken bones. Whoever kept him here wanted him alive.” The doctor hates working without gloves, but douses the wounds with the antiseptic wipes, “he won’t die from these.”

“That doesn’t make the sitch any better,” de-cowled Tim pulls the cowl back over his face to secure it since they’re mobile now and bad guys have a terrible tendency to fuck with important people when the ident is compromised. You know, previous _experience_ and shit.

“No, but at least we can move him, and start checking out the territory.” Blind Tim is already pulling the youngest up, maneuvering the limp Red Robin over a shoulder. He’s very _carefully_ not being completely pissed off about the suit. _Nope_. Nothing to see here.

Meanwhile, Dark Tim takes approximately two seconds to look at the shadowy figure laying full out in the other cell in this creepy little hallway. His heart slams painfully, and a gasp torn from him, eyes wide behind the domino.

He’s already working on the door, fast and efficient, pulling up the old knowledge, the old experience he hasn’t used in _months_ of being on his own, of just taking to the streets instead of taking down the big, bad evils of the world. (He’d wanted something _simple,_ something to remind him where his roots were, something he could do without being a _Bat_ ).

But at the moment, there’s nothing more important than kicking it up a fucking _notch_. He triggers the door to open once security is deactivated, almost _vibrating_ with energy.

“C’mon, c’mon,” is a fervent prayer under his breath because _please, please be alive_.

“Whoa! Dude, did you hit the jackpot or _what_?”

But he doesn’t even pay attention to the others coming out of prison cell #2 or pause once the door is high enough for him to duck under.

“Shit,” cowled Tim growls, “he’s got something good,” and follows while the doctor and blind Tim get their younger counterpart the _fuck_ out of that cell.

What he finds makes him pause in the doorway, a gasp caught in his throat.

Dark Tim is cradling Kon-El’s face between his palms, talking gently to the woozy-looking clone.

“Kryptonite. That douche bag has to have kryptonite in here somewhere to keep him down,” domino Tim joins the hunt, letting the nameless one of them do his thing.

“Superboy!?” The doctor, however, takes a knee, takes in the sluggishly moving eyes, takes in the manacles and bodysuit, the slight green tint to the clone’s veins.

“He’s bordering on Kryptonite poisoning. We need to get him out and fast,” the doctor takes the clone’s face from dark Tim and tilts him closer to the light, watches the pupils react sluggishly.

Dark Tim is all aboard _that_ train, this mission now seemingly priority _one_.

“M’ seeing double,” the clone (who doesn’t know _why_ the other guy called him Kon or Conner, why this one called him...Superboy? He doesn’t know those names, doesn’t know why the hold on his face is gentle, easy. Nothing has been gentle since he was brought here.) “Who...who _are_ you?”

Dark Tim gets the first unlocked with his jaw _tight_ , “in my world...I’m your best friend. Me and Bart. You...you’re _important_ to me there.”

The clone blinks up at him owlishly.

“You hit a bad fight in my world,” the doctor fills in, unabashedly pulling at the suit to make sure he’s not missing something else. “The Titans called me to help unscramble your DNA when some kind of magic made you human. We totally played Mario Kart for _hours_ , dude.”

“Y-Your world?”

“Long explanation. We’ll give you the deets once you’re away from the bad green glowy rock.”

“It’s under the floorboards,” cowled Tim is right there when the second manacle unlocks, helping to pull the weak clone to his feet. “Hopefully, he’ll start to get his strength back once we get him far enough away.”

“W-who…?” His eyes are inexplicably drawn to dark Tim, blue eyes taking in the vigilante that is on his other side, already pulling the clone’s arm around his shoulders and walking him to the door.

“Tim,” the dark one fills in softly. “I’m Tim Drake. We...we all are in one way or another. We’re all from different worlds and in each of them, you are important to us, okay? Can we go with that for now?”

The clone blinks at the whiteouts while he shuffles forward, already feeling better with each step away from the meteor embedded in the center of the room. “You’re...one of the good guys. Thanks for not leaving me here.” His hand firms on dark Tim’s shoulder, and he quirks a small smile at the vigilante.

“Leave you here? No way in _hell_ , Kon, ah... Your name is Kon-El in my world, or Conner, but--”

“I’ll go with it. S’ better than Project 13.”

Blind Tim resets the door to close and lock when they’re out, adjusting the unconscious version of them over his shoulder.

“Since we’re, you know, trying to figure out who the fuck is behind this, why not tell us what you know, Kon?” But blind Tim already has some theories going, his mind working at why his radar array is going haywire with configurations.

The corridor is full of shadows, each of the Tim’s narrowed-eyed, trying to keep to the dimness.

“...his called himself Dr. Oz,” even though the clone is feeling better, he keeps his arm over dark Tim’s shoulder, doesn’t pull out of the hold on his wrist. “He said he had to make sure time was ‘appropriately in his order’ for the plan to work. He broke into CADMUS, broke me out of the generation tube. He...he said I had a _purpose_. I don’t--I don’t know…”

“That’s good deets, man,” dark Tim tightens the arm around Kon’s (he could get use to that as a name) waist, “he broke you out of the lab. He needs someone with super strength and senses. Someone close to invulnerable.”

“He’s fucking with space/time,” dominoed Tim furthers the theory. “That’s probably how we all got _here_ instead of that Tim’s real world,” he hitches a thumb at the Tim laying over blind Tim’s shoulder. “My readings are still off the charts, so it seems like we’re--”

“Outside of time.” Cowled Tim finishes softly.

Blind Tim pauses when the body over his shoulder shudders, “it’s...I remember trying to--to solve a case. The missing heroes and…” the youngest leans up, braces himself when blind Tim bends his knees to put him on his feet, braces him with an arm.

“There’s something working in this universe,” blind Tim makes a shooing motion, gets the rest of them walking, “my radar array is also giving screwy readings, like it can’t connect a consistent timeline. Like there’s...some spans _missing_.”

Domino Tim nods in agreement as they take a turn, pacing carefully.

“Can you re-configure your radar to hone in on a control room or _something_?” Dark Tim glances over his shoulder. “If we can find out where his bad guy head office is, we can--”

“I,” Kon hesitates slightly, “I have, um, X-ray vision? Like the real Superman. I mean, I can _try_ \--”

Doctor Tim’s gaze snaps over to the clone, “you _do?_ That is so sweet, man. How about you take a look at this guy for me first, okay?” He hitches a thumb to the hurt vigilante, “just to ease my conscience about him _not_ having broken _anything_?”

“Oh.” The clone unconsciously squeezes dark Tim’s shoulder before he lets go and turns. “Hi. I’m...um. Hi. Are you also...Tim?”

The youngest vigilante gives a half-grin and straightens up to stick out a hand, “when I’m not in the mask, yeah. Yeah, I am, but when I’ve got this kick ass suit on, you can call me Red, okay?”

The clone blinks at him and then down to his hand. He tilts his head like a puppy, not sure what to do.

“Like this, man. Just a way to greet people for the first time,” and this world’s Tim pulls up the clone’s hand, grips it, and shakes. He grins wider when the clone grins back.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kon. I’m Red Robin, and it looks like we’re going to have to save our universe with the help of some friends.” The youngest, beaten and bruised, but grinning like mad with blood on his teeth, glances around at the other _hims_ and back to the clone. “You with us, man? Because _believe me_ , the fight? Is going to be totally _fucking sweet_ , and you are definitely going to want _in_.”

And the clone, _Kon_ , makes a-a noise that he _knows_ is called a laugh because just looking at the beaten-up guy in front of him, one that is perfectly confident and easy, one that seems to have such _faith_ , he can’t help but make the noise again and even louder. It’s the first time since he’s come to awareness with strange memories, fighting the programming that he had to fight Superman because he knew it was _wrong_ without being told that he thinks he might have been created to do something _right_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, all my universes are so interconnected that most of this, well, not this specifically, but some of the little things happening here will probably show up again :D Look for ‘he comes back to the situation at hand’ in the next chapters of the active Tims because, welp, there’s your time skip when they go back to their worlds. My Batfam Dark Tower, lol. Omg, save me. Please save me.


	14. Batfam AOB Attempt 6: The Demon's Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That motherfucker is gonna pay,” is low and dangerous through the synths as the thumb stroking against his cheek is soothing and careful. “I’m gonna rip out his fucking spine for you, baby. Gonna make him beg ta’ die.”
> 
> Tim’s throat moves when he tries to swallow, his eyes still dazed and all for the Alpha before him, “it would...it would be stellar if you could help me out with these chains first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bat-Gran from Tumblr sent me this epic thing and I just! It was validation, I guess, and she gave me the push for it. Titans_R_Us, who is always my soulmate is the one that stopped me from ripping it apart, so well, there's that.   
> BUT Ra’s pushes buttons for me in a big way, and this hits some hard lines with non-con. Please be careful if you read this, especially if it’s an uncomfortable thing. Don’t get me wrong, the revenge is sweet, but it’s not worth hurting yourself.   
> Last note: an Anon asked me to write a fight scene between Tim and Jay since well, Jay was trained with the League of Assassins. That might also be in here somewhere.

 

The carefully kept secret had been his own Achilles heel in the cape and cowl game. He’d spent _years_ planning and plotting all possible contingencies just to keep the superhero community from finding out the facts. If it wasn’t for a few _little_ things, like, you know, male Omegas are rare enough that there _are_ laws in the US concerning things like guardianship and protection (reads as: _property_ ) until mating. And just a few by-laws about exclusive rights—

When it comes to _breeding_.

To be fair, though, the breeding ones are only _ancient as fuck_ and exist in very _few_ states (of which he stays _the hell away from_ ) and are probably rarely enforced since most male Omegas are well within a pack and setting by the time they present. The very specific ones, like a male Omega is subject to the Pack Alpha’s “guardianship” until his 21st, are still in effect pretty much _everywhere_.

So the chances of him actually wearing the Robin mantle for as long as he did were pretty nil if B had known the truth from the beginning.

Thus, the subterfuge.

And also why he’s very happily kicking the utter _shit_ out of the bad guy of the week with about as much prejudice for the almost-rapist Alpha as he can muster. Reinforced boots really make the lesson sink _home_.

 _Oh, did you need those balls? Because now you_ don’t _._

Sweet, sweet vindication.

It had taken a few stops to rip off the panel of the Batplane he’d repurposed for Titan’s Tower, changing and shifting wires around as fast as he could so B, N, and Hood wouldn’t have any kind of kill switch or auto-pilot engagement once they found out he’d flown the proverbial coop after the two pack Alphas had seen him through the pending case of Heat-Mania.

Since it was just a matter of some A’s helping out an O from a terribly sticky situation, he’s sure he’s being paranoid, but well, better safe than sorry.

Right now, though?

He’s really regretting the move.

“I hope you intend to pay for that plane,” he deadpans, half naked on a stone bench, forcing himself to stay very, _very_ calm among the intense _owfuck_.

But just by the look on Ra’s al Ghul’s _face_ , however, tells him everything he probably needs to know.

The jig, apparently, is _up_.

**

“ _Detective,_ ” is smooth as silk and unruffled as the immortal in his usual smartly pressed breeches and shirt paces slowly around the detained vigilante, “this is quite an... _unexpected_ yet pleasant discovery.”

The load of _pain_ he’s riding right now since things like _plane crashes_ are just not conducive for _good morning, Red_ , is enough to make him close his eyes and breathe in deeply enough not to choke. Trust the League to have shit like _heat-sinking missiles_ that super effective. A glance down at himself shows how many gauze pads are taped to his body, the slight tinge to them telling how much it really, _really_ sucked the emergency hatch hadn’t opened fast enough for him to get completely clear in time.

“What...vital organ did...you _take_ this time?” He manages, blinking rapidly to clear out the gray areas in his vision, arms weak and useless in the manacles.

 _No gloves and gauntlets. All he’s got are the tights and boots. Fucking perfect, he worked_ really _hard_ on that suit.

The immortal stops in his perusal, smiling lightly while the _scent_ , the unfettered sweetness of _Omega_ makes his mouth fairly _water_. Once he realized it was indeed the Detective’s natural scent, all his desires, all his cravings for an _heir_ are coming to an interesting and positively _perfect_ conclusion.

The protégé of the Batman, _his_ Detective...could ( _will_ ) be the one to bare him a child. And how _perfect_ , how utterly and sinfully delightful it would be to keep this precious commodity hoarded in his most closely guarded sanctuary while he plants his seed and watches as Timothy _swells_ with it.

Such a perfect ending. One he didn’t not foresee, but with Timothy Drake, the surprises never cease. It will be a challenge to keep the brilliant detective in his clutches...until he is able to convince the young Omega to accept his mark, by sweet seduction or drugged intervention. Either way it would be as the Demon Head demands—the young Omega will be _his_ in body and soul. Then, there would be no escape. Even if the other vigilantes came for him, there would be no separating an Omega from his Alpha.

He would own the breeder, one suitable for him.

“No need for talk,” Ra’s soothes in a soft tone, hands clasped behind his back while the plans and timelines begin to form.

The blood tests he’d ordered after the natural scent gave the Detective away verified he was on birth control. A few weeks would have the drug out of his system enough to be able to conceive.

Still, Ra’s has no intention of waiting that long to _claim_. No, he would wait until Timothy was healed enough to be seduced, drug him to make him susceptible, _agreeable_ , enough that he would accept Ra’s mark without fighting.

While Timothy’s eyes flutter shut from the injuries and he’s fading out of awareness, Ra’s gently uses a single finger to turn his chin, the pad running down the soft tendon of throat, taking in the spot where he would place his mark upon this body, where he would claim this young male Omega as _his_ and his alone. Then, the Demon’s Head would keep him in chains, heavy with seed, until the Detective _understood_ where his place would forever be and his intellect could be used to further the League’s agenda.

That finger circles the tender area, Ra’s tongue coming out to lick his lips hungrily, greedily, already seeing the indentation of his teeth there as proof to the world—

This young Omega would be _owned_.

**

And it’s fuzzy, being cared for by the Demon’s Head.

He knows he’s being drugged while his injuries heal. He _knows_ the soft purring that should be an indication to _run like fuck_ shouldn’t roll down his spine and settle in the depth of him. He knows an Alpha taking care of him appeals to the baser senses, that Ra’s is fucking _evil_ and he should be plotting every escape attempt in _existence_.

(And _fuck_ , he’s trying. But the hands washing him, the Alpha kneeling outside the ornate tub, the care taken lifting him out, dressing his body with tenderness and consideration. The hand pressing against his lower belly, palming it in anticipation—it’s everything his inner Omega _craves_.To be fucking _wanted._ )

But he’s kept out of sight, out of gear, and out of options. When Ra’s isn’t personally in the room, the gold collar and manacles keep him secured. He’s managed a hair pin from one of the attendants and found their weaknesses easily enough to make the beginning of a plan. Enough strength back in his limbs; Ra’s gone for more than an hour and he’s _solid_.

But the injections are usually given right before the Demon’s Head attends his other duties, leaving the young detective

 _Out_.

He stirs, coming to some kind of consciousness. The familiar chains chime when his arms and legs twitch.

He’s only half-aware, the feel of big hands gliding along his spine and splaying out, rubbing oil into his skin, working it in.

A sheet is soft, draped over his bare ass, the scent of incense and the expensive soaps from the latest bath still clinging to him and the room.

Being chained on his belly makes the vigilante in him cringe, vulnerable and weak-muscled. Too many things are going over his head (except the hairpin he manages to slide into his palm when he moves a little to draw the attention away from the little sleight of hand).

“Ah, Beloved,” Thumbs moving down to the base, working right above the top of his ass, the touch making him a little more weak, kneading into him without pain. “So sweet and pliant. You are perfect like this for me. Exactly how you should be.”

Warm against his spine, breath and a mouth tracing along his back, tracing scars and bare skin, heating his blood with the attention.

 _(Drugged. What did he drug me with this time_ —? _)_

He doesn’t realize he’s growling low, scent tingling in acrid _fear_.

“Ssshhh. Be of _ease_ , Sweet One. It is only something to help you _relax_. It will appeal to your instinct so you will know I shall care for you. I shall _always_ care for you as an Alpha should.”

 _The incense_. _Fuck!_

Tim bites down on his lower lip, wants to fight against the arousal building in his blood when those hands go just under the sheet and start working his ass and thighs, getting close to the entrance to his body, making him tense.

“And I _shall_. I will take it upon myself to make certain you are never left behind, that you will never be abandoned again.” Those hands keep moving over him as Ra’s leans gracefully down, powerful and potent, his scent a spicy musk of want and contentment ( _fucking satisfaction_ ). “No, no, who could ever abandon _you_? Beautiful and capable. So strong and yet so in need. You are a heady combination, Detective. So deserving of love and adoration, so _worthy_ of _more_.”

The words against his ear and he can’t _escape_ , he can’t get _away_. His fingers feel sluggish, hard to work the hairpin, hard to do anything but try to still the noticeable tremble in his thighs.

“Since the moment my people brought you into my Cradle, you peaked my interest. The little Robin grown out of his former wings, becoming his own bird, surpassing his mentor to best _me_.”

The words move to the back of his neck, making a shudder roll down his spine. Just a small move above him and the silk of Ra’s shirt, the hard muscle beneath is pressed against his bare back, lighting up his senses, and the instincts uncurl, moving up his arms, so he’s gripping the chains in white-knuckled fists, trying to breath as shallow as possible.

Hand move up without Ra’s stopping, gliding over his sides, flickering idly over his nipples and back down again.

“Your intelligence and ingenuity is everything I want in an _equal_. Be it friend or foe, and only in you, Sweet One, does it make me yearn for _more_.”

And that mouth moves over his neck, the bite of teeth skimming over the tendon and close, so frighteningly, erotically _close_ to his _spot_. The dueling instincts and sensations make Tim bite down on the expensive sheets below him, but as much as his hips can shift with his ankles chained, the friction against his awakening cock builds the heat _higher_ in his belly, makes the word _equal_ sink in deep.

And Ra’s slick hands glide over his hips, curve around his body to thumb at the indents and lift him enough to cup a hand around him, to weigh him, and start to move.

The noise muffled against the sheets is half-desperation, half-sob because _fuck_ it feels good. The scent winding around his senses, strong and powerful _Alpha_. An Alpha that _wants_ him, wants to _keep_ him, make him _Pack_.

It would totes be a perfect sitch if he wasn’t, you know, an evil fucking megalomaniac with homicidal tendencies.

Because there’s _that_.

“And I will _have it_. I will have it all, Timothy,” Ra’s moves to the Omega’s shoulders, keeping them pressed together in his bed with his chest, learning the Detective’s body, exploiting any weaknesses his questing hand can find while he gently works the awakening cock. “You will no longer be able to hide from me. There will be no need, not when I will provide you all of your heart’s desires. Not when _I_ will be the one to keep you safe, my beautiful Sweet One, my Detective, my _Beloved_.”

But Tim bites down hard on his lower lip, trying to fight the drug, fight the rising want to bare his throat and _submit_ , to whimper for the dark things promised into his _skin_.

Ra’s hums as he licks slowly over a scar and moves to find more, speeding up just slightly, just enough that the Detective doesn’t notice his other hand probing, moving to the entrance he would soon take.

As the incense burns, calls to the Omega’s instincts, Ra’s groans gently when he finds the entrance just slightly _slick_ , just enough to convince him the combination of the aphrodisiac and incense are working according to plan.

He takes his time working the Omega’s hardening cock in his hand still slick with oil, takes his time working the tight entrance with the pad of his fingers, takes his time moving over the skin and muscle and bone with his mouth, lips, and tongue.

Trying to dull the effects, Tim has only his intellect, his logic to rely on, to use against his instincts.

“L-lies…” he manages. “Nothing but—fucking _lies_ , you bastard.”

Ra’s simply purrs again, moving back to talk against the back of his Omega’s neck, waiting for the tell-tale signs of submission. “Not at all, Sweet One. I shall be your _mate_ , and I will take you into my safekeeping. Never shall you walk alone, without the scent of your pack, your Alpha on your pretty little throat. I shall care for you as none other has, I shall make you whine and beg for more every time I take you. I will give you _everything_ you need.”

“Y-You kicked me out of a fucking _window_.”

“And yet, here you _are.”_ His hand speeds up more, taking in the thighs trembling delicately against his own, “as strong and proud and _perfect_. So beautiful in your strength, Timothy.” He leans in to run his tongue over _that spot_ , urgent, making the Omega bite down on his lip against a noise.

“And none of _them_ have ever seen it within you. Not as _I_ have. None of them, your precious mentor and his sidekicks have never _looked_ at you, have never seen the potential in you that is so _obvious_ to even the most untrained eye. What great things you could accomplish, Timothy. _They_ only see a bird to be discarded once used, to be rejected, thrown away.”

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, bites down until he bleeds while the pressure in his belly winds up _tight_ while the words that should be nothing but utter crap, just _lip service_ , wind into the base of his spine where old hurts are buried and old wants suppressed.

“You are a _prize_ , Detective. Worthy of worship and praise. Worthy of desire and fulfillment. Worthy of the strongest Alpha to call _yours_.”

With his ankles chained like this, his ass nudged tightly against Ra’s hips, he can’t move, can’t get away from the hand working his cock and the fingers spreading slick around his entrance. Any struggles are thwarted by those hips pressing against his harder, making the chains tighten, making the outline of an erect Alpha cock press against the back of his thigh.

“I have lived for centuries,” Ra’s continues, exuding just slight pressure against the entrance, working his fingertips in while squeezing the base of Timothy’s thick cock before resuming his ministrations, “I have taken so _many_ , bedded the most beautiful and pliant, brought them to their _knees_ in _want_. None of them have ever taken my breath as you do. None of them have ever warranted my attention and affection such as _this_.” And when he feels more slick leak on his fingers does he finally breach the tightness fully, moaning out as he is engulfed by warmth, enamored by how tight and _wet_ , imagining how the Detective will writhe on his cock.

Tim cries out with it, with his body opening up, with fingers thrusting inside him to match the movement on his cock, his eyes wet with the warring sensations of how _good_ and how _wrong_ it is.

“No... _no_...lies…” he husks out, fists tightening on the chains, but he’s powerless to fight Ra’s scent, Ra’s touch, Ra’s raw _ownership_.

“Never, Beloved. Never about how much I desire you in every way. Your courage, your wit, your body, all of it will be mine, _should_ be mine. For only I am strong enough to keep you.”

“You’re sick _fuck_ ,” he moans out, letting out a sob when those fingers find the spot inside him, the one that makes his slick pour, adding another layer of scent. “I’ll never—I’ll _never_ —”

Ra’s arousal only grows, musky and thick, his fingers circling that pleasurable nub with an expert touch.

“Oh, but you _shall_ ,” is breathed against his ear as Ra’s hips start to shift against him, start to rut his hard cock against the back of Timothy’s thigh. “You shall eventually submit to me. You shall give me _everything_ you are once you understand, Beloved. You were always meant to be mine. Once you proved your prowess to me, it was only a matter of time, an inevitability. I will have no less than _perfection_ , and you? Are simply that.”

Fuck.

_Fuck._

“S-Stop,” he pants out. “Stop this, you-you _fucker_. I’m a—ah, _ah_ —a terrible Omega. I’ll- I’ll never stop fighting. I’ll never _stop fighting_.”

A low chuckle and Ra’s mouth moves to his throat, attaching to that damn _spot_.

And he _sucks_.

Tim shoves his face into the soft sheets to try and muffle the cry, but it’s really pointless. The Alpha is all over him, blanketing him with body and scent, with arousal and the movement of hands, with fucked-up _words_ and sentiments he’s craved to hear for far, far too fucking long.

All of it is too intense for his brain to work, for his senses to do anything other but take all the raw input and wind him closer and closer to coming for his most dangerous enemy.

“You will learn,” the immortal assures him once he can pull away from the distracting span of throat, “that _I_ am the only one for you.”

And the hand on his cock speeds up, the fingers inside him fucking against his _spot_ , the hard, trapped length moving against him rhythmically.

“ _No...no….no_ ,” is his only sanity, his mantra even as Ra’s purrs against his back and works him without pause.

“Yes, Sweet One. Now come for me. _Come for your Alpha_ , Timothy.”

Another hard thrust of those fingers inside him, the friction against the sensitive head of his cock, and he is, shoving the scream into the bedsheets while the immortal pressing against him and slowly, slyly smiles in victory.

**

With prolonged exposure to the incense, Ra’s has found his Omega to be perfectly _divine_. The Demon’s Head is wearing his softest pants and breeches as Timothy is nestled in his lap, beautifully bare, muscles lax and loose. His wrists are bound behind him, connected to his collar by delicate yet resilient chains, his knees and ankles bound together with jeweled manacles as befitting him. _Priceless_. Beads and precious stones lay against his chest and thighs, properly, prettily adorned.

As such, he fits so nicely under Ra’s chin, his skin softening with time and care. Eventually the hard muscle would give way to sweet curves.

As he should be.

Those eyes are dazed, his mouth opening when Ra’s presses another tender morsel on his lower lip. Days of subtle training and treachery are beginning to take _root_. Of course, Ra’s _knows_ the detective only began doing so to keep up his strength, to make his little _plans_ —so desirable in his defiance, white teeth bared in a snarl, snapping as he accepted food and the drugged wine.

Satisfied the conditioning is indeed taking hold, Ra’s idly plays with the spot above Timothy’s scent gland that shall one day bear his mark.

“Wonderful, my Sweet One. How beautiful you are for me. Just like this, allowing me to care for you, to feed you from mine own hand.”

The Omega’s scent rolls across his senses, delightfully heavy and full.

“I will always provide what my Omega needs. I will be the Alpha you _deserve_ , the Alpha who will care for you, fulfill you, will give you all you desire…” he leans in to scent, idly nosing at that spot, “I am the Alpha who will take your _submission_.”

Just a press of lips on the spot, and he holds the chalice up for another drink of drugged wine.

It would be only a matter of _time_ before the Detective was healed enough to be thoroughly taken, for his body to be gloriously _wet_ and open for Ra’s cock to lay ownership. The immortal would knot him, _fill him_ , and bite down to _claim_. Just the thought of being buried deep inside his tightness, his warmth, moving within him, saying such words to wring every noise from that _mouth_.

He will watch the remaining defiance fade into pleasure and passions. Into perfectly pliable submission.

The wait, the _anticipation_ of it has been the greatest test of Ra’s long life.

Even more so, the wait for a worthy _heir_.

When he takes the chalice away, the press of his mouth is to taste the sweetness on lips, yet the feel of the Detective’s mouth draws him further in.

 _Soon_ , as the Omega whines against him, closes his eyes weakly, _soon, Beloved_.

**

Five days is all he can possibly _stand_.

And to make this creature _writhe_ with his mouth and hands, to make him come over and over, building him to the peak of ecstasy, to whisper so sweetly to him without being allowed to _take_ has been nothing short of utter torture.

Lying between those thighs, the marks of their progression on soft skin, he works his Sweet One with their time finally _at hand_.

“You have always belonged here,” and Ra’s lays his mouth at the spot that is _his_ , preparing his Omega for the ritual to come. “You shall always belong here. Your _place_ is with me. You know this to be true, Beloved. In your heart, you belong to _me_.”

A flick of the wrist and his breeches are undone, spilling himself out of the soft cloth.

The tinkle of the chains on wrists and ankles will be the sound of their lovemaking, the incense and slick and arousal scent the air with everything he _craves_. His mouth moves over that spot, sucking and licking, laying his scent over it all, proving to his Detective that he is Pack and shall be _mate_.

Ra’s shifts his hips, aligning them, works to rub their hard cocks together while he adds another finger and Timothy whines in his throat, eyes falling half-mast. Even chained, his back arches slightly, just as beautiful as when Ra’s had him open and panting, head ducked between his spread thighs to _taste_.

Never had he _known_ such sweetness as this Omega’s slick, never has he _ached_ for more, never has it become an _addiction_ , the pure want, bringing his instincts to the fore as he attacked the vulnerable entrance with his mouth to chase every last bit, keeping those straining thighs apart until the trembles of pleasure made the Detective helpless against his ministrations.

And he took _more_ , took until he was _sated_ and the Omega thoroughly wrung-out and weeping with oversensitivity, beautifully lax against the satin sheets of his prison, his true _place_. The need, however, for _more_ had lasted far, _far_ into the night.

He finally forces himself away from the temptation, moves to take that mouth again, slowly and sweetly, almost chaste, just a pass of tongue to taste.

“You will allow this,” firm and gentle, “you will give yourself to the one that is the most worthy,” he shifts only slightly, the move enough to slide his throbbing cock to rut between his Omega’s ass, rub through his slick.

“R-Ra’s…” is hoarse and slurred, the first coherent thing he’s heard in hours.

“All mine,” he groans against that mouth, moving against the entrance to his Beloved’s body, “there will never be another for you. Not while I _breathe_.”

The noise against his mouth, the vestiges of fight still linger, is soon going to be such _sweet_ capitulation when Ra’s leans down before he fills this body with his seed, breeds this body _deep_ , and _bites_. The Demon’s Head gasps with it, with the slick on his cock, with the warm tightness he is about to _take_ —

When one of his best assassins is thrown hard enough to break the door into debris, and his sanctuary is _invaded_.

He has only a moment to be on his feet, fasten his breeches before a feral Alpha male is barreling in, bloodthirsty and _raw_.

Only the vigilante’s head moves, the lenses white in the dim of his bedroom softly lit for the ritual claiming. The Omega chained prisoner on the bed moves sluggishly to meet that mask—

And _whines_ for his _Alpha_.

The call to his pack, the cry for _help_ is a snap to immediate attention just as the Red Hood hits the door, and Nightwing is on Ra’s al Ghul like a _shot_ , leaping into a brutal brawl against the Alpha that would fucking _dare_.

Timmy is _his_ , and no one, _no one_ is going to have him.

Hood’s chest is heaving, the only thing saving him from going into a Rage is the scent blockers in the helmet, taking that factor out of the equation.

He gets the picture, however, when Tim’s eyes fill up, and the Omega cringes as far as he can chained to a fucking _bed_.

“Jesus Mother-Fucking- _Christ_ ,” as he runs headlong into the room, .45s still in his tight fists. It’s a smooth duck and dodge around the fighting Alphas to reach the bed in _no time flat_ to shove the guns back in his holsters and grip Timmy’s face between his hands as he tries to be as gentle as possibly _can_ taking into account the state Timmy’s in.

“Hey, Sugar. Hey.”

Tim’s eyes spill over while he blinks impossibly big eyes up, “J-Jay...”

“That mother _fucker_ is gonna _pay_ ,” is low and dangerous through the synths as the thumb stroking against his cheek is soothing and careful. “I’m gonna rip out his fucking _spine_ for you, baby. Gonna make him _beg_ ta’ die.”

Tim’s throat moves when he tries to swallow, his eyes still dazed and all for the Alpha before him, “it would...it would be _stellar_ if you could help me out with these chains first.”

“Anything, baby. _Anything_.”

The sound of _breaking_ hits Tim right in the awareness. Hood does a good thing by laying his jacket out over Tim’s naked body as the two Alphas ten feet from them are fighting like rabid animals for the rights to him. It makes a shudder work up his spine, and he turns his face away to hide in his bound arms while the familiar slide of leather and the scent of brimstone and metal and _Jason_ make his fucking eyes well up again.

Ra’s almost had him. _Almost_.

“Baby, _baby_. Did he hurt ya? Baby, s’okay. That rat bastard used drugs and shit, it wasn’t _you_ , Timmy. I swear to fucking God, it wasn’t _you_.”

Ra’s takes a series of fast and furious blows, enough to disorientate him, enough that he’s spitting blood and teeth on the floor. The vigilante doesn’t give him even a moment, before he’s back, a swift knee to the solar plexus hard enough to fracture something, an elbow to the back of the head, putting the immortal on the ground. But it’s still _there_ in his nose, the scent of Ra’s on Tim’s skin, the layer of fear and shame, the obviously unwanted arousal, the Alpha’s deep, claiming musk, and…the _drug_ lightly perfuming the air.

The combination drives Nightwing’s growl even lower just before he comes back in, allowing the Demon’s Head to only woozily gain his feet before the next volley, the next attack, the next flip, the next throw, dangerously close to crossing the Batman’s _line_.

Robin hitting the doorway, beating Father by taking the vents, is the only thing that will save Ra’s al Ghul’s life.

The young Alpha takes in the scene, gags slightly on the scents, and plots out the immediate need. He ducks, rolls, and dodges to get to Hood’s side by Tim, his cape already detached to lay over the Omega, to layer the scents of Pack. He pops the lock-pick kit out of his utility belt, and nudges the other Alpha out of the way.

“Father is busy with assassins on the second lower level. You must stop Grayson, or he will _kill_ Grandfather for this,” he’s already working on the manacles, voice grim and angry, close to a growl. “As much as I would enjoy spilling blood for this atrocity, it is not our way.”

Just a quick tap to his domino and it’s Dami’s eyes blinking down, “Tim? Tim, if you can answer, hold on. We _will_ get you out.”

Hood’s body is _tight_ with anger, but god _dammit_ , the little Demon is fucking _right_. If he let Dickie kill Ra’s, no matter how much the son-of-a-cocksucking- _bitch_ deserved it, everyone’s gonna go ape _shit_. ‘Sides, Timmy’s the one what had the right to make that call, and ain’t _nobody_ gonna take it from ‘im.

Still, he chances a glance over one shoulder to see how bad Ra’s is gettin’ his ass handed to him, and thinks the immortal can take s’mmore before he intervenes. With Dickie this far in a Rage, he’s gonna need to work out just a ‘lil more _aggression_ before they can put him down anyhow.

So instead, he moves around so he’s looking at Timmy’s face, being easy-like and sliding fingers into the Omega’s hair, “Baby. Baby, we got a ping when the plane went down. Started searching f’ ya right fucking then. That bastard moved ya twice, s’ why we took s’ damn long. I’m sorry ya had ta suffer. Baby, I’m _sorry_. We ain’t never gonna let ‘im have ya. Not gonna ever happen, Sugar. You’re _our_ goddamned Omega, and that’s fucking _that_ , you feel me?”

And it’s good when Tim lifts his face out of his arm, his face wet, cheeks red, his lower lip is bloody from biting down so hard.

“Sshh, my good ‘Mega,” Hood wipes a line down his cheek, “know ya did whatcha could, Timmy, makes me so proud a’ ya. Proud ta call ya mine. Proud ta be in yer Pack, Baby.”

Tim’s eyes close tight, his chest aching because those two idiots _came for him_.

“The incense is drugged,” Robin fills in, “you must put it out or Grayson will get worse. It is made from a rare plant meant to suppress inhibitions and enhance instincts.”

“Are you fucking _kidding me,_ Demon?”

“No. Grandfather uses it when he wants his...partner to his liking.” And a manacle pops, freeing a wrist. “Tim, can you respond? You have been heavily drugged, but we will free you soon.”

The thud is Ra’s body hitting the wall, slumping unconscious to the floor, while Nightwing crouches, every muscle in his body tight and ready to defend. This threat to his pack, to _his_ Omega, has to be taken out. Cannot be allowed to live after trying to take what is theirs by force.

“Shit!” Hood looks over and back to his Baby Bird. “I’ll be right back for you, Timmy. You hear me? None a’ this shit is yer fault, and we’re gonna make sure that asshole ain’t never gonna lay a fucking hand on ya again.”

Tim wets his dry lips, trembling under the jacket and cape, his free hand shaky wiping off his face. “Yeah...make sure N doesn’t...do something we’re all going to regret.”

“Fuck, Tim. Ain’t nobody gonna regret making Ra’s _pay_ ,” and the Red Hood is off, running to body slam into Nightwing, taking out the incense at the same time.

“Almost. I almost have it, Timothy,” Robin’s dark eyes move over the unmarked span of neck with a soft sigh of relief, catches the Omega’s wet eyes. “The _moment_ I believe you have no further tricks in your repertoire, and you amaze me yet again. The incense Grandfather has been drugging you with is one of the most powerful on the planet. How you have been able to overcome is truly a feat of strength.”

The minute click frees the other hand, and Robin kneels slowly on the bed, gloved fingers gently working the collar.

“D-Dami…” Because no fucking _wonder_. Now _he_ wants a turn at beating the shit out of the bad guys.

“I am here, Tim,” the Alpha leans down a little, eyes rolling up to meet the shaky Omega’s, “we are here, and we shall not abandon you.”

He blinks like crazy but his eyes spill over anyway.

The collar comes off and the teenagers throws the damn thing with a sneer, but gloved hands on his biceps, pulling him up against the armored tunic, Robin gently pressing his face against the scent of pack and Alpha, holding him tight enough to ground but not enough that he can’t _pull_ away.

When their Pack Leader hits the doorway, the Dark Knight takes in the scene from two perspectives:

Beta and Father

The Batman and Leader

Ra’s al Ghul’s limp body is zip tied, and a low, rolling growl enough to get his two Alpha’s attentions.

As much as he hates it, B stares down the feral Nightwing, lifts a hand to the back of his neck, and squeezes. He expects Dick to fight the submission, and starts talking to try and get through the bare instincts to the man under them. Jason is doing his best to keep the struggling Alpha in his hold, but not even the Red Hood could stand up to a feral Nightwing when their Omega has been abused, almost taken from them.

“You need to _stop_ ,” is the Batman’s dark, commanding tone, “you’re scaring Tim. Is that what you want?” His hand clamps down harder on the back of Nightwing’s neck to make the statement hit _home_.

The vigilante pauses, arms still locked in Hood’s hold, and the mask swings over to the Omega still on the bed by his chained ankles, huddling against Robin, clenching handfuls of sleeve.

“He’s been traumatized,” the Batman continues, and some of the bloodlust is fading from Nightwing’s scent, “he’s going to need his pack to support him, so it’s time for _you_ to calm it _down_. Understand? Tim is going to take precedent over _this_.”

It’s a pure and simple command from the Pack Leader, no room for argument, and the feral Alpha eases down in degrees, panting.

Scenting the baby Alpha and safety, Tim is barely aware of his ankles being freed as the low rumble against his chest is Dami soothing him.

A gloved hand in his hair as Robin’s hold tightens just slightly, “Tim. Tim respond.”

He might make a move to pull back from Robin’s jugular, but the little Alpha keeps him pressed in, “...yeah…” he swallows hard, “yeah, Dami.”

“We have not found your clothing, I am going to wrap my cape around you. Is this...is this alright, Tim?”

The shaken Omega nods, only feels the movements as the cape shifts from over his lap to around his shoulders, but his fingers scrabble in Jason’s jacket, still holding on to it.

The other Alphas who freed his ankles are right there to tuck the cape around him, warm hands on his covered shoulders and back. B is absurdly easy, laying a hand to the back of his neck, reinforcing his place as part of the Pack.

And it’s a stupid thing how his damn eyes spill over again, getting on Dami’s skin, getting on the tunic that used to be his. It’s _stupid_ how Ra’s almost had him convinced no one would bother coming for him, that he was never really _meant_ to be with these crazy, loveable assholes.

But as they all get closer, surround him, crowd him, purr against him, be stupidly gentle with touches to his back and sides and shoulders and hair, he lets their scents and concerns sink in deep.

The Omega buried beneath his senses rolls around the base of his spine, just as relieved as he is.

**

He comes to wedged between his pack Alphas, lying on the floor of his favorite library in Wayne Manor.

The t-shirt is Dick’s, boxers Jason’s. The blanket tucked around him smells like Dami. The pillow under his head is all Cass, and under it something that smells like B. The cloth on his forehead, once cool, is all Alfred.

When he blinks a few times to get rid of the haze, Dick is sleeping right up against him. Dami is pretty much sprawled over Dick’s side to also have a hand on him, snoring softly with his hair a ruffled mess. Jason huffs on a snore behind him, and just a small turn shows B just behind him, wrapped up in another blanket, and Alfred is asleep in the slippered chair in the corner.

The surprises keep coming because Cass is splayed out above them, her features soft, and the dark circles around her eyes getting lighter. Steph’s arm is flopped over her, the other pillowing both of their heads.

And all of it calls to him, all of their scents on his body, claiming him as _theirs_. With no blockers and his system emptied of suppressants, he can just lay back and float a little, satisfied with the world in general.

When he blinks back, Dick’s eyes are open, looking at him with a small smile. The Alpha leans in, careful not to disturb Dami, and nuzzles against his nose.

“Wh...What?” He blinks up at his Alpha, sleepy and penned in.

“Go back to sleep for a little bit, baby. We’re here, okay? We’re not going to leave you.” Dick’s mouth is warm and soft against his forehead, a palm against his neck, and his scent is soothing enough that Tim does just that.

**

Cass, however, glares at the others and refuses to let him out of her lap. She smells _good_ , jasmine and flowers and safety. Her nails scratch idly at his scalp while Jay’s eyebrows furrow and Dick fairly _whines_.

“C’mon, Cass! It’s _my turn_ ,” the pack Alpha tries. _Again_.

She huffs out a half-growl, her arms getting tighter while Tim totally doesn’t laugh.

Nope. Not at _all_.

“As entertaining as this is,” he starts, waving one hand around from her ninja hold, “I really should get back to work at some point.”

B, his paper disregarded for the spectacle in front of him, has the gall to chuckle, “I gave you your laptop this morning, Tim. I put it together from scratch myself, you know.”

“I’m aware _B_ , but I need enough arms free to actually _use it_.”

Their pack leader grins even _wider_.

Steph, with her hand on his knee since his legs are thrown over hers, just wags a finger at Dick, Jay, and Dami, “nu-uh! You three had _plenty_ of time with our Omega. It’s _our turn now_.”

Tim groans against the top of Cass’s head, but really, it’s not like it’s going to do him any _good_.

“That ain’t _right_ , you feel me?” Jay actually sticks out his lower lip and _pouts_. “Ya can’t hog Timmy all ta yerselves. That’s shitty, even f’ _you_ , Blondie.”

Steph sticks out her tongue and grips Tim’s legs tighter.

“ _My_. _Turn_.” Cass growls out, low and dangerous, arms around the taller boy nestled against her.

Tim rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and his chest chuffs with laughs that he desperately tries to keep in.

**

The Cave echoes with the moves. Soft sighs and the force of blows.

B, in his bodysuit sans cowl and utility belt watches _every_ _move_. Dick is oddly still when he would usually be shifting foot-to-foot, working his muscles, working his sticks in preparation for the oncoming night. Instead, his shoulders are tense, arms deceptively loose at his sides while they watch.

And B had given Cass and Jay the option earlier in the week because, _yes_ , the Beta _knows_ his third son, knows him better than he might know himself, and this? This was going to be what Tim _needed_ before he put the mask back on and rolled out into the night.

It wasn’t what he would have asked for, wasn’t what he ever would have said, but when Bruce told him specifically he needed to stretch himself out and prep, the Omega’s tight body had relaxed enough to give him away.

Well, World’s Greatest Detective and all.

Being a Pack Leader, however, is really a stretch of those skills.

Before it even started, B had given both of them the run-down: “you know how we play it when someone gets injured. We do a tag-up to make sure we’re at 100% before we hit the night. Tim, Jason stepped up. Are you good with that?”

He’d seen the calculation on Tim’s face as he mulled it over, stared at the Alpha-Second. When B had chosen either Cass or Jason to be the one, he’d known the two both had training with the League of Assassins, were utterly deadly (even if Jason hid most of his training, only pulled it out in the _extremes_ ), and both would make Tim _work_ for it. Dick would be too swayed to be easy, Damian wasn’t anywhere _near_ ready to fight their pack Omega now that they’ve thoroughly claimed him as _theirs_ , drenching him in their scent, and Steph would have hitches anytime she needed to lay down a real blow. Even he was too compromised at this point, not trusting himself to work Tim out as much as the Omega needed to be to feel like he was still part of the cape and cowls.

It’s how Tim’s own psyche had worked against him, the need to prove he can stand toe-to-toe with the rest of them even if he’s done nothing but proven himself since before he even put on the R.

B knows how to get him right where he needs to be, and Jason would be the other to help get him there.

Before the fight started, Tim had come up to the Alpha, hands and ankles already wrapped, and the bo behind his leg.

“Don’t even _think_ about it,” was all the Omega needed to say.

Those blue eyes flecked with green narrowed in reply, and a jerk of the Alpha’s head is the reply he was apparently looking for.

With dominos and workout gear, the two faced each other on the mats, muscles tight with anticipation.

The ensuing fight is stunning, masterful in the way Jason Todd relies on speed and stealth, pulls out every trick he _has_ again the Omega without a hitch, without a pause. He’s fast and furious, fighting so differently than his usual street brawling, his body a smooth wave, water flowing in endless moves. He uses his height and superior reach at every interval, not even hesitating when the blows land, coming around with a vengeance to deliver more, to put his strength into each one.

He doesn’t hold _back_.

_(He can only let **go** because he know this is why Timmy needs, knows that little shit will clock him if he tries to do it dirty, yeah?)_

Tim ditches the bo not long in, planning the next move, the next dodge, the next block, the next blow. He watches Jay move, watches Jay bury himself deep in the training from another _life_ before they became _this_. He counters, ducks under the offensive to land crucial blows, uses his own speed and stealth like he’s fighting against the Wanderer and her horde of terrible bad guys. He takes in all the weaknesses, buries himself in _Red Robin_ , fights like he’s going to die if he loses.

The next volley makes Dick gasp, but he stays where he stands, watching the progression, the blows, the possible fatal moves.

He’s breathless with how amazing they are, with Jason putting himself at the top of his game, pushing himself _hard_ just to give their Omega what he desperately _needs_.

To prove what he _needs_ to prove— to _himself_ , not to them.

( _He’s already Pack. He’s **theirs** , and now he knows it_)

Red slides, barely avoids the silent back-fist, coming to his feet in a seamless motion; he moves, backbends, comes up fighting, comes around to take the kick to his abdomen so he can get the nerve strike in to Hood’s shoulder, take the dominant arm out of the equation.

Jason doesn’t give an _inch_ , coming back at him with the other arm landing a solid blow to the kidneys, reading into his weaknesses as much as Red is reading into his.

The bruises are going to be _epic_ tomorrow, but with blood pumping, adrenaline kicking in, with every dodge, every counter, every blow, and every plan, the two come back over and over again, leaping up to flip and throw, to back-kick, changing up styles to throw the other off.

It’s brutal, beautiful, and breathtaking.

B is ready to call it three hours in when both of them look like they’ve been through _hell_.

Jay, however, doesn’t even look, just holds up a hand, staring Tim down across the span of mats where blood and sweat have dried, tacky and telling.

“Fuck _you_ ,” Tim growls low and dangerous.

The Red Hood sees it ( _not yet_ ) and moves back into the fray.

By dawn, the two fighters are worn, growling and baring teeth, bodies pushed to the edges of endurance.

The Cave is a mess of broken _everything_. Alfred, B, and Dick have made every effort to keep up while staying out of the way.

Still, that balance beam is _done for_.

And Jason Todd is wavering on his feet, blood a gory mask down his face, every inch _Alpha_ and Hood. As much as the fight has gotten his instincts to _fight_ to rise, as much as the past between him and Baby Bird is a road of bad blood and sharp edges, as much as he used to _hate_ the idea of being replaced rather than avenged, the Pit has settled in his veins, stayed dormant and _silent_.

He counts it as a win.

Tim is crouched, a hand out to steady himself, to lead with, for the next onslaught. His arms ache like he can’t even _remember_ , his bruised and bloody mouth turned in a sneer while his eyes never stop moving. And it’s in him, the push to stand the _fuck up_ regardless of how beaten he feels, how much the ache sinks down into his _bones_ , because it’s still _there_ where it’s always been—the vigilante that won’t give up and won’t fucking give _in_.

The thing that kept him moving through a span of deaths, of his world falling apart time and time again, of his _life_ becoming one shit show after another.

He can still put one foot in front of the other.

He can still fucking _stand_.

And Jason sees it, the realization when Tim blinks and the hand ready to deliver more pain drops down just _slightly_.

Voice hoarse with exertion and effort, with going _back_ into his past of being a nasty, murderous motherfucker, Jason calls out over the span separating them, “waz about it, Timmy? Think ya can take some fucking _assholes_ outta the bad guy game yet? Like _that shit_ was ever a _question?_ ”

Huffing, Red just grins with blood on his teeth, and it’s the look they’ve all been waiting for.

Jay’s knee gives out abruptly, dropping him down, and all the bruised, beaten muscles in his body finally _relax_.

The two flop down bonelessly to the mats, looking at each other from the prone position. Just before B and Dick realize it’s finally _over_ and rush forward, the two of them start to _laugh_ like they’ve lost their minds _._

Considering what they _do_ for a living, welp, the possibility is always there anyway.

**

A week in Gotham is going back to his _roots_. It’s taking out the everyday, low-life scum bags and unraveling the usual plots from the Rogue Gallery Escapee of the Week (Nygma this time and his riddles are just _ass_. _Seriously_.)

He’s finally getting ready to board the repaired Batplane and take off to the Tower, scent blockers on and suppressants in his bag ( _but when he washes the blockers off, he’s going to reek of B and Alfred, Dami and Dick, Cass and Steph, with a whole lot of Jay thrown in, and they’re his, all of them **his**_ ). He takes the good natured ribbing, the to-go containers of homemade food. He promises to eat ( _yes, Alfred, every day_ ) and not work himself to the point of insanity ( _take a pill, B_ ). He swears to let them know if his Heat is being a pain in the nut ( _Jay laughed out loud at that one_ ), and will check in at least once a week ( _really, Dami, fly out to San Fran for some sleuthing to go down_ ). He gets hugs and nuzzles into his neck, the pack reinforcing their claims on him, and _that_ send-off? Is something he could really get _used to_.

**

The Demon’s Head stalks into his personal rooms and throws his cape on the bed.

His desk is stacked full of invoices and details to oversee now that the League has set-up yet again, and he is out of the Pit from some much needed healing.

They’ve gone back to business-as-usual, taking on clients, gathering intel, planning the next moves against the world of elitist fools bent on their _crusades_ to save a dying world (and one day, _one day_ , they would be forced to face the effects of their meddling when the ground under their feet would swallow them whole and even the skies will burn them to _ash_ ). He’s been busy, making up for lost time, strategizing the best path to take in the important matters.

But his attention goes immediately to the span of wall where Red Robin is leaning, _waiting_.

“A surprise,” purred low while the smile of half-mad _delight_ spreads across the immortal’s face, “how enchanting you look, my Beloved. Here in my chambers, waiting for my attentions. Have you come to accept my offer? To be where you belong?”

Very precisely, Red raises one hand and pulls off the domino.

“ _Lovely_. I will gladly accept your submission, Timothy,” his grin widens, “down _on your knees_.”

And that?

Is where he would be wildly _incorrect_.

Because Red smirks, his eyes narrow just a breath before he’s in perpetual _motion_.

And picking a fight with, you know, an _immortal asshole_ is never smart, not even for B that can realistically take Ra’s 8 out of 10 times, but, welp, lucky for him—he’s got a _plan_.

Stuck in the clutches of the bastard had given the Omega everything he needed to be able to read further into Ra’s moves, the twitch of muscle, the smooth flat blows, the pause before the hit.

He reads into Ra’s like a book, and moves around him, smaller, _faster_ , and—

Without holding _back_.

He’s not against Jay or Dick or B. He’s not up against The Light or invading alien dickbags. He’s not up against the Joker or any _number_ of the bad guys on his roster of evil fiends.

He’s up against Ra’s al Ghul, so he doesn’t feel _any_ kind of bad about using the same tricks and traps, he doesn’t feel bad when the elbow to that smug face brings teeth or the bone-jarring knee to the spine puts the immoral on the fucking _ground_ for impossibly long moments (in which he adjusted his gauntlet and walked it _out_ , just a little _whistle while you work_ ).

“This is no way,” Ra’s spits a mouthful of blood on the way to his feet, “to convince me you are going to accept your place at my _side_ , Timothy.”

“Your usual brand of crazy is always _refreshing_ ,” he banters back lightly, pulling pellets out of his belt, flicking them carelessly.

The compound encases the immortal’s feet and legs, holding him to the ground while Red sweeps a hand over the desk to throw the sundries to the floor and plops his ass right down for _this_ little thing.

“So, _first_ , the plan,” he tells Ra’s, eyes hard and cold, “the incense in the corner? You’re usual brand of _rape drug_ is turned up to Alpha prick, so you’re feeling that right about—”

A low growl from the trapped Alpha, but it borders on the edge of panic.

“—now. Next,” Red hits the keystroke on his wrist computer and the screens in the room flicker to life, “aw. We’re down to five Lazarus Pits? Wow, that really sucks for you if you go too far out of South America, doesn’t it?”

Those eyes widen, dart to the screen, cut off mid-growl.

Red waves the fingers of one hand at the screen, “yeah, _buh-bye_.” The explosions take out the camera and the screens go static. The rumbling under their feet is just _that_ case in point.

He turns calmly back as the Demon Head is shouting out loud.

“You will _pay_ for this Timothy,” the enraged Alpha swears, “I will _fuck you until I breed you_ , and then I will cut out your heart when you birth me a child.”

“Not going to happen,” Red assures him, quirking a half-grin. “There’s a sixth pit, but I’m going to keep that little deet to myself. Even if there _wasn’t_ ,” and he’s up on silent feet, moving through the room with a sway to his hips, and the full backing of his years, his other masters, his other victories and losses riding riding on the edge of his cape. He’s not the Robin he once way, he’s pushed at those boundaries _way_ too fucking far to ever go _back_.

But what he _isn’t_ , is scared of this _this fucking asshole_.

The stupid thing he forgot while chained the immortal’s side?

He’s a fucking _Bat_ , and Bats? Don’t give _in_.

And the move is something unexpected, something Ra’s could attempt to counter, it’s the vestiges of his killing move, _The Demon’s Trap_ , modified to fit his weaknesses, modified to keep from killing him.

Even trying to counter, his body numbs out with the feather-soft touch, without the Detective really _trying_. The strategy behind it is _breathtaking_.

 _Touché, Timothy_.

The concoction has made it up to his chest, holding him up, immobile with the move, encased in the hardening substance that would need to be broken apart to be removed. He’s helpless in his own body, staring at the vigilante standing face-to-face with him.

Red arches a brow and moves a hand to wipe at his neck, just enough to get some of the scent blocker off his throat. The tinge of Omega sweetness hits the Demon’s Head like a freight train, slamming into his lungs, heavy and full. His hormones shift, his instincts rising to the _fore_.

He must _take_ and own and possess.

“Hm, how’s that panning out for you?” The Detective darts the tip of his pink tongue out to lick his lips, and the motion would make the Demon’s Head _moan_ if he had enough air to do so. “Don’t like it when someone uses it against _you_? Unfortunately, Alphas are more in tune with their instincts this close to a Rut, so the next few hours? Those are going to _suck_ for you, Ra’s.”

He tries to move just a hand as the concoction finally seems to stop below his shoulders, encasing him completely. The only thing he can move is his eyes, eyes that can take in the body moving even closer to him, the scent bring him deeper and further into _need_. Need so strong it’s _maddening_.

“Now that you know I’m an Omega, you know a very crucial weakness,” Red allows, drawing closer, tilting his head just enough that a few more inches would bring their mouths together. Ra’s can feel the warmth of breath against his lips, the noise he manages is a high, tormented _whine_. “And so I’ll always be _looking_ for that. From now on, that’s going to be part of my contingencies against you. You’ll never get the opportunity again. That? Is a fucking _fact_ , not like I would ever give in to the likes of _you_ ,” and the power in those eyes, the strength of his anger is something beautiful and _terrifying_. “You’re never going to own me. Not with your fucking drugs and shitload of _crazy_. I have a pack, and they’ll always come for me, but even when they _can’t_ and you think you’ve _won_ , I’m going to pull out something and surprise you. Next time it might be something even worse.”

He fits the domino back on, gives a two-fingered salute before walking away.

“And Ra’s?”

Unable to move, his senses and instincts rising hard, making his heart pick up, making his back teeth _ache_ with the feral wants pulling his every cell.

“You ever put your hands on me again, and I won’t need to kill you. What I’ll do is make you _wish_ for it. Probably like you’ll be doing in a few hours. _Welp_ , enjoy that.”

He closes the door behind him, leaving Ra’s to suffer, and grins on his way through the vents.

**

On his way to the Batplane, he jolts when the desert dust kicks up and Kid Flash is just literally _in his face_.

“ _Dude!”_ The speedster gives _no shits_ about wrapping himself around Red, encompassing the taller vigilante with all arms and legs.

He manages to wiggle a hand free and pat his bestie on the top of the head, “hey, man. You’re a long way from—”

But Kon and Cassie land it with Gar riding on Kon’s back and Raven pulling up the rear. His eyes crinkle behind the domino as the Titans settle down (from where they’d been hiding twenty feet behind that damn _dune_ over there, Red, you’re bad guys have _terrible_ hideouts) and come in for a greeting.

“They have been insufferable,” Raven deadpans with a nod to the super clone, speedster, and shape shifter. “I demand you return. This...is not what I signed up for.”

Cassie’s eyes go wide and she slaps a hand over her mouth before she _dies_.

The whiteouts swing in that direction pointedly, “I put paper down for you three and everything. Bad. Bad!”

“C’ _mon_ , man, we didn’t even _break_ anything this time.”

“Uh, well, nothing _important_ anyway. Those light fixtures were stupid to begin with. Some of us do shit like _fly_ you know?”

Red groans a little, “I can’t leave you alone for a few days.”

The banter is easy and light, Kid Flash taking a much needed _hang on a minute_ to send the text superfast back to Batman.

Yes, Red was where you said he’d be. Yes, we watched the cameras. Nah, he was totes on his game. It’s pizza time. Later.

He joins the team walking up into the Batplane, laughing and determining the next move. They fill Red in on the usual happenings with their baddies and such as the plane lifts up, and they head to the Tower for much needed team _bonding_. Kon can’t get Cassie’s toe nails right, Bart is about to _die_ since DDR is only so good when they don’t hack the shit out of it so the avatars are their mentors, Gar has been waiting for the next move on the pseudo-CADMUS assholes that need a little stomping, and Raven--just wants them all to _Stop. Being. A. Pain. In. Her. Ass_. Please, Red, she is going to call up the Carnivorous Beast dimension if something is not _done_.

And he moves in the center of them, the eyes of the storm, whiteouts raised on the dom so they can _definitely_ tell when he’s rolling his eyes. He takes in the usual give to Bart’s prosthetic knee and makes a mental note or order another bearing; he hears the side convo when Kon is complaining about how he’d rather fight Black Zero (you know, _that guy_ ) than sign up for College Algebra II (it’s fine he has an app for that--it’ll be on Kon’s tablet in a few minutes); Gar takes a call from Steve Dalton, his adopted dad, about the new thing the Doom Patrol is up to ( _have to check that sitch out before he goes_ ); Raven flops down in one of the seats and promptly takes a nap (the last battle with Trigon did a number on her--it might be time for some slippers, popcorn, and a slew of bad ‘70’s horror flicks she denies she loves); and Cassie--Cassie is smiling at him softly and shaking her head in commiseration, but she’s a Demi-Goddess _Alpha_ , and the scent blockers don’t do a damn thing.

Her look is smug and knowing, the Batfamily’s claim all too _clear_.

And _no_ , she isn’t laughing at him when his cheeks go pink under that mask and the rest of the team continues on with the usual _ho-hum_ as the plane glides through the sky.

(But when he finally gets to her toes later that night, stretched out on the couch to add white poka dots, they most certainly have a _word_ to two.)

**

When servants find the Demon’s Head almost a day later, he is driven to the vestiges of sanity. The bloodlust takes root, his awareness waning in the rise of _Alpha_. His lust has moved into an complete and utter _Rage_ because of the Omega that trapped him, _him_ , that left him, denied him, drove him to feats before unheard of—

Had every tool needed to _best_ Ra’s al Ghul, the Demon’s Head.

The new Cradle is permanently damaged, ruins of a careful, concise set-up, setting the League back while all return to assist in the attempt to stop his destructive rampage. They manage to subdue him and return him to the small, hoarded lake of the Pit waters (his last resort) in hopes it will come back to some semblance of awareness.

His last thought as the waters close over his head is that this creature, the one _worthy_ of him, will, _must_ be _his_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading :D


	15. Just another round of drabbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabbles from Tumblr: The Body Swap Trilogy (I don't think I ever posted these), Fracture What-If Ask,  
> Calculation: Poison-basil's Ask: Dick forgetting Tim's birthday.

**_The Body Swap_ **

Is there any chance you can take up this prompt?: Dick did something that had him accidentally switching bodies with Tim. Imagine his surprise when he finds himself in Tim's body. Tim who he has not talk to in ages and Tim who is now Dick, but in some dangerous situation that makes him wonder what Tim has been up to. Poor Tim would not be happy with the situation he finds himself in, because of Dick. Sorry for my babbling. Can you PLEASE take up this prompt. You always do it best. Thank you!!!

_-Hey babe. Merry Christmas and whatnot, yeah?_

**

He sucks in a breath like he’s  _dying_.

And the brain is still in  _fight_  mode, adapt to your surroundings, assess, place the dangers, find the shadows, palm the tech, and mother _fucking_  move.

He’s a Red Robin that’s had a seriously bad stint of  _year_ ; one that’s weary down to the  _bone_. One that is scrawny and scrappy, more raw and ruthless than he ever was wearing the R. Sometimes you have to  _evolve_ to deal with things like Lex Luthor, dick bag aliens, and terrorist organizations bent on any assortment of world domination.

Magic users  _suck ass_  too.

Case in point:

Twenty-eight seconds ago he was in the middle of a fight in downtown Los Angeles against a magic-user; right now, he’s in Gotham. Really, he’d know the Wallstone  _anywhere_.

“N, what  _the fuck_  was that?”

The Red Hood is literally Right. Fucking. There.

“ _Shit_ ,” he snarls out, already kicking into yet another type of  _fight_ mode, but—

The voice.

The body difference.

One look at his hand and— _finger stripes_

Mother _fucker_.

“Dick?” Is Hood’s voice coming out low even with the synths, “what is it?”

Red (or N) holds up both hands in the universal  _I’m not **that** dangerous, don’t kick my ass_ kind of way, but he can already see Hood going for his sidearm, just,  _you know_ , very fucking familiar.

“Magic users are dick bags,” is the first thing he comes up with, and it just sounds  _wrong_  in N’s deeper baritone. “Don’t shoot me, Hood.”

“…fuck,  _Replacement?_ ”

“I’d say  _good to see you_ , but well, I’ve already stated the obvious.”

“Hn. Dick bags, yeah?”

“ _Oh yeah_ ,” he takes a second to feel around for where N kept his cell now since the damn suit is just a second skin really because some people had  _no shame_ —

The iPhone is literally such an antiquated piece of shit that he almost drops it, just  _ick_.

Before he gets the thing unlocked, “Addicted to You” cuts through the dark Gotham night, permeating soft lamp light.

Of anything he could have expected (shot, stabbed, a dance-off, a game of banter-fight, whatever really), the Red Hood to hold up a  _just a minute_  finger while bringing the cell up to the side of the helmet, is not one of the scenarios.

“Uh-hu,” Hood nods.

He subtly checks the Nightwing suit for weapons, grapple, pellets, well,  _something_  so he doesn’t get stabbed on top of everything else.

“Aw,  _Dickie_ , I’m hurt. Like I’d shoot the lil’ fucker er something.”

Red stays wisely silent, pellets palmed. You know, for just  _in case_. Extra grapple line is still in the back of the waist, just like when they used to—

Hood is making a  _hurry it along, asshole_  hand and finally holds the thing out (and is an Android of relative control  _thank God_ ), “here y’are.”

“Red Robin,” sounds stupid in N’s deeper baritone.

“The Titans say  _hi!”_  N yells enthusiastically, and his voice sounds so off with  _Dick Grayson_  behind it (and it takes  _effort_  to swallow down the bitter regrets, righteous anger, and old hurts anytime he has a break between catastrophes to wonder where it all went so  _wrong_ —)

“The fight?” And his ( _N’s_ ) throat clicks slightly.

“Uh,  _well_ —I only got here  _half-way_  through and all, Baby Bird—“

 _Don’t fucking call me that_.

“He got away.”

“Magic users. Am I right?” And his voice sounds too  _amused_ , too  _smug_ , and he just wants to punch himself in the  _face_  right about now, but there are  _plans_  in the works for what he could realistically do to Dick’s body without permanent damage.

“Put Superboy on,” is ground out between clenched teeth.

“Aw, c’mon, we can fix this, Tim. I’ll—“

“It happened on our side,” is clipped, precise, “I’m on it. Just put Kon on the phone.”

There’s a hesitation on the line and whooshing of the background, soft  _zaahs_  of movement (well,  _Bat_ -movement, that is), “Tim, I know we haven’t—we haven’t been  _okay_  in a while—“ and Dick in his body isn’t even winded while dodging something. The grunt following tells him it is indeed Kon.

“This isn’t happening,” he interrupts, “at  _all_. Thank-you but  _fuck you_ , Dick. You give me a member of my team, I get this shit  _reversed_ , and we wave bye-bye from a safe distance of several continents.”

“Jesus Tim, I thought we were  _at least_ —“

“Apparently you thought wrong. Give me Kon or I’m hanging up and throwing you in front of a train.”

The audible  _click_  by his temple is just the Red Hood taking that for the threat it  _really is_. “Do everyone a favor, and don’t  _try it_ , asshole.”

He turns very slowly, thinking how  _fucked up_  it is that he’s not shorter than Jason this time around, “my brain in Dick Grayson’s body,” is all he needs to say.

“You little  _shit_ —“

“Go  _die_ , Hood,” he sneers, pellets already between his fingers.

“All right, all right,” N shouts through the phone in his voice, “I’m giving the phone to Superboy, just…dammit, Jay, calm down. Please?”

Something unintelligible comes through the synths, and  _surprise, surprise!_  the Red Hood backs off, easing the trigger down. He points a finger at Red, tension in the lines of his stance, “you want I really put some effort into the dance,  _Red_ , try to make  _good_  on that shit.”

And he doesn’t know if his smirk is anywhere  _near_  N’s own evil expression, but he grins white in the night.

On the other end of the phone, Kon is apparently amused as hell (and  _oh yeah_ , he believes in karma—just  _all the way_ ), “Hey Red! Or N…?”

“Fuck you,” Red snarls out, deeper with Dick’s vocal chords.

“Look at it this way,” Kon continues, “you can beat the hell out of his body instead of yours?”

And Red just walks right over that comment with, “I’m going to my Perch here and start on the usual list of magic users to get this crap reversed. Drop him off at the Manor, try following the Mystic if he left any kind of trail.”

“Well, someone pissed in  _your_  cornflakes fearless leader.” And yes, that’s his  _best friend_  right there, the epic douche bag. Bart probably already has a  _list_  of shit he intends to say _._

“Not amused,” he replies and hangs up the phone without a good-bye, tossing it in Hood’s general direction, and throws the line, takes the appropriate swing in the direction of his Perch, reverently hoping for some _thing_ to kick the shit out of on the way.

**

Five hours later, Dick Grayson (in his temporarily shorter body) is scowling like  _mad,_ taking the steps down to the Cave with rough, jerky movements. He’d spent the last twenty minutes in front of the bathroom mirror adjacent to his old room; it had been a rough twenty minutes of cataloguing the mass of new scars marring Tim Drake’s back, the new ones on his front (one right across his abdomen, too clean for the usual array of sharp, pointy things). He’s on his way down to the Cave for some computer time, start looking into what Timmy had been up to in the last few years since he’d been the Red Robin.

He lifts a small hand in greeting to Dami, fresh out of the Cave showers after a long patrol, and barely gets a  _word_.

“ _Drake_ ,” and all the venom is there, hitting Dick right in the chest. “Haven’t you learned you no longer have a  _place_  here?”

Dick almost  _chokes_ , staring down at Little D, his mini-bro, his  _partner_ , his Robin, hurt and almost betrayed before he remembers he’s not wearing his own  _face_.

And Dami hesitates, narrowing his eyes when he isn’t met with the usual scathing retorts he’s come to  _expect_. The utterly crushed look on the former Robin’s face is not one he can ever remember seeing before  _now_.

“It’s Dick,” he admits, numb, “Dami…do you really say that kind of thing to Tim?”

But the youngest Robin’s brain is switching gears, “Grayson?  _Grayson_? How—?”

“The Titans were facing magic users,” and his face firms, crossing Tim’s arms over his chest while he stares his little brother down.

“ _Tt,_ useless. Drake allowed himself to get hit and take your body from you?”

“Little D—answer the  _question_. You really don’t try to keep Tim from coming  _home_ , his home, do you?”

Now the smallest gives Dick an impatient look, “honestly, how is it that you have managed to live  _this long_  will forever remain a mystery.”

“ _Dami_ —“

“You are well aware,” the youngest rolls right over him, “the Robin legacy is  _mine_  by blood.  _He_  had no rights to it. He has no place here once I took over the mantle.”

“How could you do that to him?! God,  _Dami_ , he was Robin in his own  _right_. He’s part of the  _family_  whether it’s by blood or not—“

“We have argued this before,” Damian just raises a hand, “and we will never agree on it, Grayson. I believed that is why we  _stopped_ having the Drake discussion in the first place, I  _believed_  you finally began to see  _reason_.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” B interjects, scaring the  _shit_  out of both of them (because, you know,  _the night_ ).

Dami goes stiff immediately, face carefully neutral, “Father, I—“

“The role of Robin has nothing to do with  _blood_ ,” the Batman admonishes shortly, striding right past his son, cape swirling around him.

Dick just turns Tim’s back and follows B to the computer, leaving Damian to his own churning thoughts while he climbs the stairs to retire in the Manor for the rest of the night.

“I need to do some research,” he fills the boss in, automatically throwing a hip against the chair, and almost falling on his ass because, well, height difference and such.

B hums while the system comes to life, his way to indicate  _yes, hyperactive child, I’m listening_.

Instead, he steps to B’s peripheral and raises the shirt off Tim Drake’s abdomen, then  _waits for it_.

The cowl comes off, blue eyes narrow on the incision scar, the calculating gaze going up to Dick’s ( _Tim’s_ ,  _who he hasn’t seen in too long without a mask—usually when the criminal world shit has hit the fan and either the Bats or JLA need Red’s brand of **talent**_ ). Dick just turns and raises the shirt up to the mass of white scars marring Red Robin’s back.

“So, yes, I need some intel,” on  _what the fuck he’s apparently missed_.

But B’s mouth gets that crazy little moue when he’s already got theories and evidence to back him up.

Dick points an accusing finger, “you already  _know_.”

Well,  _World’s Greatest Detective_.

“I’ve been keeping track,” B fills in shortly.

Dick catches himself this time and can lean on the console to give B all the attention in the world.

**

The security system shows him his own face standing outside the penthouse perch, and Tim sighs, considers the benefits of staying in lockdown to work the spell from Zatanna (who had likewise  _laughed like an asshole_ , really, superheroes are just a community of gossipmongers that enjoy the  _shit_  out of it when he actually gets screwed over for once), and hoping Dick goes back to the Manor.

He interprets the expression on his own face to the one he’s currently wearing, and  _yup,_ that’s the  _former Batman’s got your number_  look.

Fan- _fucking_ -tastic.

“I’ll have it in another few hours,” he says when he cracks open the door enough to show his taller, more flexible self, “and I haven’t done anything to your body.”

“That’s what worries me, Timmers,” is Dick’s hard tone from his own mouth when the smaller of the two pushes himself inside and flicks the  _who knows what_  pellets back into hiding.

“How did you find me?” Is what he asks instead, crossing the arms over the chest broader than his own.

“I’m also this thing called  _a detective_ ,” Dick deadpans and…it works,  _really_.

Tim nods for the  _touché_ , giving Dick a mental point, “all right, I think we’ve already covered all the basis, so there’s no need for you to—“

“Be here, Tim?” And his smaller body gets right up into his  _bubble_. So, regardless of what body he’s in, Dick’s understanding of  _personal space_  is non-existent as usual. “I don’t have to  _acknowledge_  you? To  _deal_  with you? Is that what you were going to say?”

And what Dick is pissed about goes right over his head, but he’s on the defensive by tone and body language alone.

“Maybe I’m missing something here,” he starts slowly in a voice that used to  _mean something_ , “but whatever crawled up your ass and  _died_ —“

“You don’t have a  _spleen_ ,” shuts him right the hell up.

“ _So?_  I can still do my  _fucking job_ , Dick. I lead my team, it doesn’t affect—“

“You told me,” Dick jabs a finger right into his sternum, “you  _told me_ , Tim, I was still your big brother and you knew I’d always  _catch you_. I  _believed_ it.”

Tim makes the face he’s wearing go neutral, blank.

“And Dami…I just learned to let 75% of the crap he says go in one ear and out the other, but he’s part of the reason you’ve  _stayed gone?_   _Dammit, Tim_. You should have  _told_  me what it was  _doing_  to you. You’ve always been able to come to me,” and Dick’s voice is picking up, anger making it well up and spew out, “I’ve  _always_  tried not to let you down, no matter what. You’re my  _brother_ , and yes, you  _asshole_ , I love you, and—“

“You thought I was crazy,” he admits, low and completely empty, “you took Robin with some bullshit about being equals and you tried to get me into Arkham.”

Dick eases down, staring up into his own face intently, the expression looking as though it actually belongs on the face.

“After I brought B back, when I didn’t come to Gotham, I figured it was a done deal. You made your choice, and your choice told me I didn’t have a  _place_  there, that I was never really a Robin anyway. Him saying it? Just like  _you_  saying it, Dick, so I stayed the fuck out until some  _catastrophe_  or one of you needed  _tech support_  or some shit.”

Dick’s jaw tightens, but Tim doesn’t back down.

“You want to know what it  _did_  to me, Dick?  It made me realize what my  _place_  really was, so it’s  _fine_ , I  _get it_. You’ve got the real thing, the  _right_  Robin, so spare me this big brother  _act_.”

He shoves past his own body, back to his system, to his comfort pot of coffee ready to be devoured, and the pressure in his chest is completely  _inconsequential_  because he’s had  _time_  to come to grips, to accept the unavoidable truths.

“Now,  _like I said_ , I still need a few hours, and you obviously know where the door is.”

But, the body standing shock still hasn’t moved, has barely breathed, his own eyes taking in everything possible for the detective in Dick’s hindbrain while his  _fucking heart_  gives a lurch.

“I made good choices,” Dick finally admits, “I didn’t carry them out like I should have. I didn’t… I didn’t take care of you like I should have so you’d never doubt your place, so you’d always  _know_  you’re a Bat. No matter what happens, Tim, no matter what Damian might have said to you, you’ll always be one of us.”

Sitting at his system with Dick’s longer legs stretched out and the translation finally ready, the laugh that comes from his chest is one that makes the older vigilante  _flinch_.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” and he soothes away the  _utter bullshit_  vibe, not looking up when the door opens and closes.

**

Getting his body back means  _peace, I’m **out**_.

Because,  _well_ , the Manor and such. At least he’d left Dick’s body in a complex system of Gotham’s sewers, conveniently without a cell phone or comm.

Oops.

Well, whatever. Croc is in Blackgate for the moment, just taking a vacay.

So, he has the time to get back to the Perch, get a quick shower, and take a ride to Titan’s Tower, get back on his usual crazy ass workload and conveniently forget he  _ever_  got stuck in some terrible  _trope_.

He goes down the back staircase, hitting an alternative vent leading down into the back side of the Cave where he can just hop a Ducati without running in to any other Bats that might be writing down notes from the night’s activities, fixing random vehicles, making more tech, running the gambit of analysis, or feeding the odd gathering of  _animals_.

Once he hits freedom without any snags, he can take in a full breath again, riding out into the familiar countryside paths back into Gotham proper.

The hidden entrance to his underground garage opens up to the sub-basement where he parks the bike, and takes the stairs two a time to get to the penthouse. Suppressing a shudder at the thought of whatever Dick might have done to his body, he rips the borrowed Gotham Knights t-shirt off, hand already moving up his abdomen before he gets the door closed and faces the mirror—

And winces.

Black sharpie with Dick’s careful block printing is all over his chest, upper arms, and abdomen, each scar recorded with a date, time, place, weapon of choice, and injury statistics. With a slow turn, he glances over his marked shoulder to the scrawling chicken scratch of the Red Hood on his back.

Dick took his time mapping out the last couple of years—on Tim’s own  _body_.

His eyes trace the pathways, read the commentary, look at that neat printing with things like  _could have **died**  again_, and maybe… _maybe_ some part of him wants to step back, give Dick an inch, even though he’s just fucking tired of being the last one standing.

It’s not a big enough part to stop him from getting in the shower and scrubbing his skin raw and red with harsh soap usually for abrasions. It’s not a big enough part to stop him from suiting up and riding out to the Batwing twenty minutes before Bruce Wayne shows up at the door to his Gotham penthouse. It’s not a big enough part to answer his phone when it’s Damian’s number ringing through.

It’s not a big enough part to stop him from leaving.

**

**_Body Swap 2: The Fallout_ **

_Ah, it’s very angsty because I just–I wanted a knock-down-drag-out fight between these two. I want Dick just as pissed as Tim (because of than “you’re my big brother Dick, I know you’ll always come for me,” line Tim fed him in the Red Robin comic. Such a load of crap, right?). I wanted Tim screaming, and welp, I got it. (So prepare for the feel train, it’s rolling down the track)._

_And a new HC that really makes me feel better about the whole Dick taking the tunic thing, but you can read about it and let me know what you think ;)_

**

A few days after the little  _incident_ , he’s settled back into his usual routine: check with his team, track any nefarious activity, do any necessary tech refreshes, and dip out to track any number of leads.

He’s on the  _dip out_  part, already suiting up and packing some supplies for an extensive trip out to start up with infiltrating an underground fighting ring he thinks might be a cover for something a  _hell_  of a lot worse when the Tower’s systems tell him someone with a passcode not Titan specific has touched-down on the roof.

The systems pops up a screen so he can watch the Javelin ease down, effectively blocking his own plane from being able to take off.

Behind the whiteouts, his eyes narrow, but he’s moving to the communal floor, giving the executive override to the elevator sliding slowly to his Perch. The re-direct is going to be better for however  _this_  little convo is going to go.

He double-checks his utility belt absently as the doors slide open.

“Titans are out,” he starts, “you’ll have to pull the JL roster instead.”

Nightwing stops  _dead_  at the lack of humor or empathy. It’s just business as fucking usual– _natch_. And Big Wing pauses with it, calculating the last time before the body swap incident that he’d actually seen the face, the  _eyes_ , under the mask before he was staring at it in the mirror. ( _Why didn’t he realize it before?_ )

Soft click and a whirl when central air kicks in, blowing cold on his neck and shoulders, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t  _move_. From behind the whiteouts, he’s staring, eyes moving over Red’s abdomen, seeing the roadmap of scars, seeing the new scores against the good guys, seeing a whole lot of  _vigilante_  without any of the  _kid_  he used to see.

That’s the only good thing about the swap now, isn’t it?

It was impossible for Tim to duck and hide if he wasn’t even in his own  _body_.

“I really  _hate_  the sewers under the east side, Timmy,” he comes back easily, forcing it to be Tim and Dick, not N and Red. He doesn’t feel any kind of bad, “But you  _knew_  that. You’ve known that since your were in the Robin tunic, so that was a nice way to get back at me.” Now he’s moving forward, eyes for every twitch, every breath, every aborted attempt at a pocket in the utility belt, the slight twitch of the head to indicate the eyes moving for some other escape.

But, that isn’t going to happen.

Because now he  _sees_  how things have progressed. He can pick out the shadows and old pain in the slight scar on Tim’s cheekbone and the familiar furrow of his forehead–one he’d always associated with the baddies, Tim’s  _planning to break shit_  furrow (and well, who’s getting a load of that  _now_?)

Even if Tim’s playing leader of the Titans, playing at keeping himself above the petty fucking emotions that leave him open and vulnerable, Dick, for the first time in  _too long_  sees right past the facade.

And his lip curls up in a sneer, slow boiling anger that’s been simmering for  _days_ , one that started the moment he let himself out of Tim’s Perch in a body that was  _fucked_  with new scars and lack of crucial viscera. Once he realized Tim had been lying to him the whole time–had just been playing some sort of fucked-up  _role–_  the slow, churning betrayal turned into anger just  _that quick._

Tim had let himself step back and away, hadn’t  _trusted_  him enough to open his damn mouth with the Real. Fucking. Deets.

( _Why did you stop **talking**  to me?! Why didn’t you tell me it was all too much? Why did you let yourself slip through my grip? Dammit, Tim. God_dammit.)

And. It.  _Hurts_. Hurt to know Tim pulled the deflection card on him. On.  _Him_. (The guy that apparently lies to whoever the hell Batman  _is_ at the time).The devices they used against criminals and murderers, against megalomaniacs and psychopaths, the weapons they used to hide the meaty humanity under the capes so the baddies couldn’t  _break_  them open with it–

Their tools to stop the bad guys.

And Tim used it on  _him_.

So when Nightwing resumes his stalk, to come face-to-face with his little bro– the leader of the Titans (and just how  _fucked_  is it that he’s pretty sure Tim doesn’t want to be called that now, well too damn  _bad_ ), his hips roll in a smooth, seamless motion anyone that  _knew him_  knew meant  _time to get **real**_. Just like he suspects, like he half-hoped  _wouldn’t_  happen, Tim’s fingers flicker, probably activating the gauntlets to spit something out in his palm (he’s already re-programmed himself to be on the offensive, not to fight  _with_  but to fight  _against_ ).

“I think having Hood write all over my fucking back kind of makes us even,” Red Robin comes back, neutral and empty. “Besides, Croc was still in Arkham. You’re welcome.” The  _asshole_  doesn’t necessarily have to be said to be understood.

“Even?” And it’s low, dangerous. Nightwing’s movements are precise and even as he raises the whiteouts so those electric blue eyes can hyper-focus, to give complete  _attention_. “You think we’re  _even,_  Tim?” And Dick leans down just enough to put the two of them close, “because I sure as  _hell_  don’t think so.”

And the furrow in that forehead gets deeper, sharper, almost the  _time to fight_  furrow. “I served my fucking  _time_  as Robin, I did what I set out to do, and your protégé gets what he wants. It’s fine, right? The day gets saved. So what the hell is  _your_  problem?”

Oh no. Oh no he  _didn’t_.

Dick’s upper lips curls in a sneer, “did what you set out to do? Is  _that_ how it went? You never  _wanted_  to be part of the family in the first place? You just wanted to get being Robin done and  _over with_ because it just some  _obligation_?”

The furrow falls away from Red’s brow because  _what now?_

“Your mom and dad were always away, so training, fighting, taking up  _my name_  was what to you? Something to keep you  _busy_?  Were we just a damn  _hobby_ or something, Tim? Is  _that_  what you’re trying to tell me?” The warm edge is bleeding through, but finally, he seems to get  _somewhere_.

Because Tim draws back insanely  _fast_  and gives absolutely  _no shits_ about punching him right in the face.

“ **Fuck.** _**You**!” _ And it’s Tim that’s yelling back at him, it’s  _Tim_. Not Red, not the mask, not the cold shoulder.

Dick doesn’t fight it, doesn’t counter it, doesn’t come back even though he’s fairly pissed right the hell off, but he works his jaw a little (because that? Was a nice one) and straightens up to the clenched fists and bared teeth.

“You could have  _said_ that a long time ago,” Dick comes back because,  _no Tim_ , we’re not just letting it  _go_ , “that we were only some way to pass the time, not that you ever wanted  _us,_ just the  _fucking_ name. All you wanted was the R all that time? Would have been nice if you’d just  _said_  so, then I wouldn’t have gotten so  _invested_  in you–”

And he’s calculating, wondering how much more Tim can take before he breaks, before he finally spills out his weakness (reads as:  _the truth_ ).

“I-I fucking  _bled_  for that cape,  _you asshole_. I almost  _died_  time and fucking  _time_  again  _for that cape_. My  _dad_ , my fucking  _dad, Dick,_ ” and the hitch is still there, the utter  _agony_ , “…all-all because I was Robin. I kept Bruce on the straight and narrow as much as he  _let me_. And what the  _fuck_  did it all mean?! What the  _fuck_  did it  _get me?!_  Thrown out on my ass? Told I was crazy? That I just had to  _accept it_  when Bruce was “dead?” How many superheroes get another chance? Like Jason- _Mother_ - _Fucking_ -Todd?! How farfetched is it  _really_?”

And Dick lets him spit it out, the warming anger burning away the icy calm of Red ( _reads as the **other**  Robin_) to reveal slivers of Tim Drake–the teenager in  _pain_.

 _That’s_  the face he wants to see again, his partner and friend,  _Timmy_. Because Dick gets the  _vigilante_  now, after mapping the journey from losing the cape until now, tracking the baddies, tracking the trail to find Batman, seeing what kind of things  _“Robin couldn’t do,_ ” all of it justified  _who_  and  _what_  Red Robin is. But Tim? The young, damaged kid under the mask is the one Dick needs to  _help_ , needs to see, needs to  _understand_. And, no, he isn’t leaving until they hash this out. So, tough, Timmy.  _I’ve got you now_.

“You couldn’t even look me  _in the face_ ,” is almost screamed at him, Tim refusing to back the hell down, his hands shaking with the poison pouring out, all the mistakes and misunderstandings, all the strain and stress, the hard decisions and unavoidable repercussions. He fully intends to give back in  _spades_. “You threw some  _bullshit_  about being equals and gave another kid  _my name_. It wasn’t  _yours then_. I made it  _mine_. It’s all I had  _left_ , the only thing I had left of  _Bruce_ , and you gave it the fuck away like I meant  _nothing_. Like I was  _garbage_.  _I had nothing else left._ ”

But Dick moves, gripping his biceps in an unforgiving hold and already ducking a hand under Tim’s defenses to rip off the domino, to look at  _him_ , not the whiteouts.

Snarling and ferocious, wet eyes and  _bared teeth_ , seeing what happened, what those tough choices did to him, to  _them_  makes Dick’s jaw clench down and his chest fucking  _ache_.

“You  _idiot_. You had  _me_. Dammit, Tim, you’ve  _always had me_. I thought you knew that. I thought after everything,  _everything_  we’d been through, in the five years we bled _together_ , you’d always  _know_ I’m here for you. I’m here for you  **no matter what**. No matter what happens, or how far you  _go,_  you  _always_  have  _me_.”

The younger vigilante in his hold, the one fighting against his grip like a bleeding, dying animal is snarling and growling in such fucking  _pain_ (and he’d missed it, missed how much he hurt Tim, how much damage they’ve done to one another without really  _trying_ ).

He grips harder, not letting Tim pull away this time, not letting him hide behind Red.

“Robin is just a fake  _name_ , Tim. Dammit, Robin isn’t, was  _never,_   _who you are_. Didn’t you figure that  _out_  in the damn  _desert?_ ” And he bares his teeth as well, shaking the younger vigilante just so he doesn’t give him  _nuclear noogies_  and  _months of endless cuddles_. Just  _how could Tim be_ such _a dumb ass not to have **known**?_  Not to have  _called_? Not to have just said  _something_?

Was the trust between them broken  _that badly?_  Why the hell had Dick even  _believed him_  when he said he  _knew_  Dick would always catch him? Why hadn’t he seen through the bullshit back  _then?_

Tim’s nose is turning red, his watery eyes narrowed, every muscle tensed up for the  _fight or flight_  instinct to kick in. Dick doesn’t give him the chance. Even if he is still  _supremely pissed_ , he pulls Tim hard into his chest, wraps both arms around him  _tight_ , trapping him at the waist and shoulders, a hand on his neck, waiting for the right time to slide into his hair. It’s how Tim used to need it after a hard night, a bad  _run_  of it, and Dick is shameless in using it to his every advantage. He puts his cheek down on the top the crown of too-long hair and breathes against Tim’s ear, “You have it  _wrong_. I didn’t think you were  _crazy_. You weren’t talking to anyone long before Bruce disappeared. You were pulling back, pulling away, and  _I couldn’t help you_. You wouldn’t let me  _help you_ , Timmy. You had a  _gun_ , and I know you had it in your hand the night I happened to call and check on you. I always  _knew_.”

And the body he can’t let  _go_  of is shuddering harder in his arms at the reveal, that Dick had always  _known_  what the third Robin was ready to do, how far gone he had almost  _been_. If Dick Grayson hadn’t called him that night, forced him to keep talking, pretty much kicked the door in to the shitty apartment in the ‘Haven with the phone still up to his ear. If Dick had just  _hung up the phone_.

Well, they wouldn’t be  _here_  now, would they?

“I didn’t know what else to  _do_.  _Dammit_ , being Robin was  _killing_  you and you couldn’t even see it.”

Frozen for long moments, Tim blinks rapidly against his watery vision at the plain cream wall over Dick’s shoulder because well,  _that_ changes things just a little, doesn’t it?

 _(Was it? Was the tunic really killing him back then? He made bad calls after Dad, after everyone– but-but…_ the .45 auto was the most solid thing he’d held for a while _)_.

“Dr. Erin O’Malley is a therapist known in  _our circles_. How do you think Roy kicked the habit? And who Ollie saw when he came back from his soul-searching thing? Barry told her about his  _mom_ , for heaven’s sake, Timmy! She knows J’onn isn’t from around here, and Kara has  _big brother_  issues with Clark. After Blockbuster and-and Tarantula, she helped  _me_  too. Hell, the majority of her clientele are  _superheroes_ , and that’s why I called her. I was getting desperate for you to talk to someone,  _anyone_  before you did  _something_.” And the fear might be old and dusty, but Dick’s tone gets thin with it anyway, the ‘he’s going to kill himself’ vibe crawling down his spine, that made him chase after Tim right after he left the Cave, ready to leave Gotham behind to go on his quest to find Bruce.

He feels Tim’s chest stutter against his, feels how hard Tim is biting down on his lower lip to keep the half-sob  _in_.  The harness is digging into the thin Kevlar lining of the Nightwing suit, and he makes an irritated noise, pulling one arm away  _just long enough_  to deactivate the thing and toss it on one of the couches without really letting Tim escape.

“The not telling you about Dami taking up the mantle was wrong, and I am such an  _asshole_  for it. I’m sorry, Tim. I’m so  _sorry_.”

He feels the tremble go through Tim’s whole body at the admission. He  _feels_  how the younger vigilante tries to ruthlessly  _squash_  what he believes is an obvious weakness by trying to pull back again, shoving his palms against Dick’s chest to get leverage. Dick just sweeps his arms by his sides and wraps himself around Tim like a blanket, walking them backwards a few feet to press Tim against the wall so he’s less likely to escape.

“I am sorry how it all happened, but I don’t regret making you move on. Someone had to break you out of the spiral before it killed you, and as much as it sucks and I  _hated it_ , it still  _worked_. The stuff with Ra’s? We are eventually going to  _talk about_  because  _you_ , you should have called me  _dammit_. How  _fast_ do you think I would have torn the Cradle  _apart_  looking for you? Faster than Clark when Lois is in some kind of  _peril_. Honestly, when have I ever  _left you_  when you called?  _Especially when you magically **lose**  a spleen_?!”

And all the facts, all the digging, all the new information makes him clench his jaw with how much he didn’t even  _know_ , the muscle jumping against Tim’s temple and his arms unconsciously tighten even  _more_ , absorbing the progressive tremble of limbs and chest, of forced, slow breathing, and the attempt to keep  _control_.

“I’m so  _pissed off_  right now, Tim. So. Pissed, but I’m not letting you  _go_. Hell. No. Not this time,  _do you understand me?_ ”

“Go to  _hell_ ,” but the tone is thick and wet, the struggle renews with vigor, “like you have any reason to be  _pissed?_  You had no problem when that little  _asshole_  made sure I knew I was just a fucking  _stand-in_.”

“Dami was an asshole to  _everyone_ –” he starts to placate, but pauses when he remembers the acidic tone, the  _honesty_  in Dami’s tone when he was the one wearing Tim’s face.

Maybe he’d underestimated how much Dami had an impact back then–

Obviously he  _has_  since Tim find the weakness in his hold, grips his wrist, turns on his heel  _fast_ , and  _throws_  him in a familiar move.

But since Dick  _was_  Robin,  _was_  Batman,  _is_  Nightwing, he rebounds off the wall and comes back for it, missing Tim by a miniscule margin when the younger folds his knees at just the right second.

Dick lands it on the Communal Floor’s kitchen, landing crouched on top the island without even a wobble, and stares Tim down with a frown marring his features.

“I didn’t  _know_  it was that bad, Tim. I  _didn’t know_ –”

“Of course you didn’t,” with scathing heat behind it. “It’s not like you’d want to hear  _anything_  against  _your fucking Robin_  now would you?” And all that tightly wound anger, all that pent-up  _pain_  is so obvious in the way Tim refuses to advance, refuses to let his voice raise again.

“Tim, I swear, at the time–”

“But you  _got_  what you  _wanted_ , didn’t you, Dick?” Is all dangerous now, low and pitched, the flash of Tim’s teeth in the overhead lights, “you got the Robin you  _wanted_ , the Robin that was fucking  _blood_. It wouldn’t have  _mattered_  if you’d paid enough to attention to know he  _cut my fucking zip line_ , or  _he’s_ the one that took me  _out_  of the Cave’s mainframe like I was a  _stain_  on the tunic. Even if you  _knew_  all of that at the time,  _what would it have really mattered?_  I was just the  _stand-in_  from the first time you wore the cowl, and I  _get it_  now.”

“ ** _No_** _,_ ” Dick snarls, leaping off the island in a smooth flow of muscle and power, countering Tim’s duck and dodge, forcing the leader of the Titans back against the wall again, “ _that isn’t true_. That was  _never_ true,” and his voice has gone deep, dark, eyes narrowed outlined by the domino, “you were  _always_  my partner, just as much as Bruce was,  _so were you_.”

“Don’t fucking  _lie_  to me now–” Tim comes back, his voice half-hoarse from yelling, screaming, his whole body clenched  _tight_ , “if I would have know that  _truth_ , it would have been  _easier_  from the start. Bruce didn’t  _hide it from me_ , Dick. You did!”

And  _that_  little bomb drop? Oh Bruce is going to  _hear about this_.

Later when there would be audio and vid. Then the Batman could have his own time to address this obviously gross  _oversight_.

For now, though, he’s going to make a  _hell_  of a lot of things very  _clear_.

“In the beginning, I didn’t  _want_  a twelve-year old getting involved. You’re right about that. I didn’t  _want_  you to take up the tunic and neither did Bruce, so you are  _one hundred percent right_. In the  _beginning_ , Tim, we  _didn’t_  want you.”

And just the facial ticks, the tightening of a gloved fist, the tells Tim had apparently tried so hard to train  _out_  of himself since he’d been Red, give Dick so much  _more_  than he had before– realizing how  _long_ this had been something at the back of Tim’s brain pan.

“It would be too easy for your to get hurt, for you to  _die_. You had a  _dad_  who would  _mourn you_ , Tim. You still had  _family_. You still had things to lose Bruce and Jason and I  _never did_ , so  _no_ , we didn’t want you risking your life for  _our_  Mission.”

Clenching jaw, eyes getting wet again, but Dick watches Tim flutter his eyes to hold  _back_. Not there yet,  _not there yet_.

“But in the first  _year_ , you proved how smart and capable you are. You didn’t back down, you didn’t  _give in_  or give  _up_. You wore that tunic like it was the only thing that  _mattered_. You gave the role of Robin more than I did at that age or Jason did. You made Robin a force to be reckoned with, and you made us, me and Bruce, so fucking  _proud_. So  _proud_  you stood by us and just  _kept on fighting_. You  _became_  our family, Tim, my brother and Bruce’s  _son_. Blood didn’t matter, it  _never mattered_. Not then and not now. Despite  _all of it_ , you’re still and always  _will be_  my little brother and nothing,  _nothing_  is going to change that.” A little fact: he is going to  _pound_  into Dami’s skull because some little birds need to  _realize_ , the  _first_  Robin was never blood either. The ‘true son’ is going to get one  _hell_  of a lesson when he gets back to Gotham.

But for right now,  _for right now_ , Tim’s eyes are wet and blown wide in surprise, his hands and arms half-poised, frozen in shock but for the small, almost imperceptible trembling ( _Oh, God, Tim, how long have you felt like this? How long have you believed–?_ ). When Tim drags in a breath, lets out a broken, choked, noise, Dick is right up in his space, gripping and holding hard by the time his eyes spill over.

It a horrible and wonderful thing at the same time, when Tim’s shaky hands come up under his arms, around his back, and  _grips_  his shoulders tight enough that the bruises are going to be  _epic_. When Tim’s face is hidden in the side of his neck, and he can feel the tears sliding down his skin to the suit, knows the younger vigilante is still trying to fight  _it_  instead of just letting  _go_.

Dick turns his face enough to bury his nose in the too-long hair and close his own hot eyes  _tight_  because he  _missed this_. Missed this too much to bear.

His tone is gruff and wobbly, his hold inescapable when he finally comes out with it, “we… We may not have wanted you in the beginning, Tim but we sure as hell did in no time  _at all_. Geeze, you’re an idiot. I mean, who  _wouldn’t_  want  _you?_  Even immortal megalomaniacs want a piece of  _that_.”

Half-laughing and half-sobbing, Tim’s muscles try to contract, try to make himself  _smaller_  in such a familiar move that Dick blinks fast but still manages to get a few wet drips in Tim’s hair. He gives absolutely  _zero_  shits about it and manages to reach down and get an arm under Tim’s knees to lift him up high against Dick’s chest, takes them both to one of the couches on the communal floor where he can sit with Tim in his lap and hold on for as long as he can.

**

**_Body Swap: The Follow-Up_ **

_I like threes for some reason .There is a little NSFW with some DickTim._

It’s crazy how he expected things to go back to the way they were. How he  _expected_  to fade back into obscurity, coming to Gotham when the call went out, using his crime fighting merit badge to stop the baddies, and fuck off back to San Fran when it was all over and done with.

What he  _didn’t_  expect, however, is N to be right up in his grill, grabbing an arm, clucking his tongue to look at the wicked gash and shake his head with narrowed lenses.

What he didn’t expect was to wake up in Dick’s apartment with his injuries usually wrapped and the smell of coffee just about  _right on_.

What he didn’t expect is B showing up at the Tower with his whole  _doom and gloom_  to scare the  _shit_  out of his people just to deliver a packed dinner straight from Alfred Pennyworth’s kitchen.

What he didn’t expect is Robin to be slightly  _insane_  when he pulled the youngest out of a burning building, throwing himself in without  _thinking_ , pulling on the hand he can see until the kid comes out from under flaming debris. He’s hacking around the smoke in his lungs, checking Robin’s neck for his pulse when those eyes open, and a gloved hand moves  _fast_  to grip his, for the kid’s eyes to get strangely wet, and the youngest vigilante to turn on his side, his spine bowing, to curve his body around Red’s hand and shake.

What he didn’t expect is the Red Hood to show up in Monaco and break into his safe house, thumb his eyelid down with a gloved hand and tell him he’s going to get eight hours of uninterrupted sleep the easy way or the  _hard_  way.

What he didn’t expect is Cass to be sitting on his fire escape when he manages to hide out in Gotham for a whole  _day_  to attend a board meeting, cancelling his plans to  _get the fuck out ASAP_  because she demands he stays in with her tonight to play board games (the underlying  _or else_  is enough to make his head spin because  _what the great fuck are they all doing? Now, they’ve got Cass in on it?_ ).

What he doesn’t expect is Nightwing to trap him on a rooftop when he’s balls deep in playing detective, the older vigilante pinning him, mouth drawn down when the  _I don’t need a babysitter, stop this shit_ comes to the fore again, and he  _fights_  because at this juncture, that’s all he can reasonably  _do_  anymore. When N raises the lenses on his dom, raises the lenses on his own, and leans down to shut him up in the craziest way imaginable, he thinks he really might have died this time–

Because the good things, the right things, the rewards, the  _good job tonights_  and  _we’ve got your backs_  have been gone so long that this? Couldn’t be anything other than trying to keep tabs on him, make sure he stays where the Bats can find him if they need him. That, at least, keeps him prepared for the inevitable downfall.

**

A few months down the line, and he’s brought to a crux in his theories while standing in the same echoy shadows, pulling a uniform from his old locker, and starting up the rituals like he used to back when he was, you know,  _that_  Robin.

Hands and wrists get six wraps each, work out the sharp muscle, make ‘em burn before it’s time to fly, maybe take a few minutes on the mat to warm it up, have a little Tool, a little 311 if it’s easy, have a little In This Moment if it’s  _not_.

It has been since he, uh, came back (let Dick lure him, the asshole) to crash at the Manor, sleeping off some run-of-the-mill  _owfuck_  being absurdly glad things like  _fiery infernos_  don’t scratch the surface of his usual Monday anymore. Really, just a weekend thing for shits and giggles.

Finding out he still has a locker, a spot in the garage, a fucking  _room_ , a mug and coffee just for him—

There was too much  _Welcome Home_  underlying all the usual back-and-forth and casual crime fighting.

Sometimes Jason picks up what he’s laying down and needs a little warm up, too. It might be Dami when the night before was fruitless and he needed to work out aggression, the moves fast and furious, to bring his vicious side  _out_  before he could balance the good still riding on the ridges of his cape. B only when it was time to  _talk_  and needed some time to warm up to the subject before he could realistically pin his third Robin and put down the truth in his usual Q&A. You know,  _World’s Greatest Detective_.

When it’s  _Dick_  though, well, that’s a completely different level of  _fight_.

And he should have  _known_  better than to trust  _that smile_  when Dick finally cajoled him into staying a night, “just  _one_  night,” in the Manor to do some detecting early in the am because of office hours and such. He should have  _known_  better because it became more than  _just one night_. Randomly waking the fuck up in his room there, drinking coffee while he showers, uses the mats, and—

Dick must have planned to have him alone in the Cave when the first sparring session turned into  _tooclosegetcloser_ , when the moves stopped being taps of a good shot, and throws only happened with the both of them on the ground ( _Dick grinding up against his ass **on purpose** )_.

It was low assurances the cameras were looped and  _you smell good, Timmy, feel perfect like this_.

It’s a different kind of fight when he’s moaning into Dick’s mouth and running his hands under the silly t-shirt so he can have  _skin,_  and of all places to be their first? This…is not really what he envisioned. At. All. (But at the time…he hadn’t been complaining.  _Nope_..

Once they cleaned up and managed to stagger back upstairs and through the abandoned main floor of the Manor to shower in Dick’s room (and…well, place number two not nearly as awkward, though the amount of positions Dick can get into while in a shower is nothing less than  _awe-inspiring._ ), his chest is loose as his muscles, falling asleep way,  _way_  too easily to the familiar creaks and groans, half laying on Dick’s chest and feeling warm for the first time in…well, he’ll leave it at that.

But like some  _random_  portal into the multiverse (sigh,  _again_ ), the whole lot of effort became routine and comfortable, became part of his nature again, sucked him in, and welp, here he is  _now_.

After patrol tonight, he’s going back to his Perch and get ready for the inevitable trip back to San Fran, doing the team thing for the week. If he isn’t back in Gotham for Friday night, a phone call would ensue. If everyone was feeling pissy, then it would be Alfred on the other end of the line.

(Just,  _why_  do that to him? He can only ride the Pennyworth Guilt Train for so long before he has to get  _off_  and do whatever necessary to make it  _stop_ ).

The long and the short of it is—at some  _point_  in the last few months, he’d made it back to the Bats, and the crazy-crime-fighting-slash-family-meals-and-noogies thing is becoming something  _familiar_  and expected.

You know,  _trap_.

At this juncture, when they’re laying down the routes and their separate investigations, when connections to the Bowery might lead to Dixon Docks and down along the riverfront where some of Match’s people got an  _ear_  to the ground could intersect with the gangbangers toting tainted opioids for cheap, leaving the buyers DOA.  

And it’s a crazy thing how the Red Hood gives him a bro fist and plans to meet up for roof tacos before the second half of the night hits, how Robin gives  _no shits_  about shoving one of Pennyworth’s sandwiches pretty much  _in his face_  because  _no, fool, you may not leave before you eat_ , how B ruffles his hair before the zoom tubes take him out of Gotham and into  _that_  realm of kick-ass crime fighting.

It’s a crazy thing (how Nightwing pulls him in  _tight_ , grips him with both hands, breathes against his neck, whispers stupid,  _pointless_  shit in his ear to make him laugh before it’s time to fly) how it makes something in his chest that used to be fucking  _broken_  as shit, that used to be  _heavy_ , that used to weigh him right the fuck  _down_ , how it makes all those scattered, fractured pieces start to come back together again.

This…wasn’t in the  _plan_.

Because along the way, the original plans had to  _change_ , to adapt to a new reality

_Where do you see yourself in twenty years, Timothy?_

_Dead. That makes the most sense_

But the plans have shifted again, the reality altered with the inclusion of these self-sacrificing  _ass hats_. It’s grown out of the team, the JL, the general populace, it’s grown right back to his fucking  _roots_ , and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. He’s already too deep to raise the other foot and be  _gone_  out of Gotham.

Instead, he’s got plans for Hood when the Pit starts to eat at him, for Dami when the old recriminations and the fight to be who he  _wanted_ instead of what they tried to  _make him_ , for Dick when he pushes himself so far past the limit of his endurance even  _he_  can’t see it’s time to  _stop_ , for B when reliving the old horror stories, the old  _failures_ instead of the victories, over and over, fighting harder and harder to get rid of the demons on his cape.

He takes the post-patrol hug without a fight (is  _completely_  onboard with the hand groping his ass), helps Jay find his other spare clip, and lays a hand on Dami’s shoulder before those two hit the big car and take off into the night. He and Jay follow behind on Ducatis, already feeling the slow burn of the oncoming night and what surprises might be in store for a couple of free vigilantes down for a little  _mayhem_.

He’s grinning when the Batmobile’s brake lights tap twice in a  _happy hunting_  before he veers off to head to his part of town and get on with some  _investigating_. The night is ready, settling on his shoulders and back, and the distinct moment, the epiphanatic realization settles with it:

_Welcome Home_

Yeah…it really  _is_ , isn’t it?

**

**

_Anon said: I love your writing and the updated has made bingeing it much easier! So, I have a question, in your Fracture what if, what happens next, what is the major fall out of everything coming to light a year earlier? And also for the Injury/ Healing prompt what’s the confrontation with Alfred like? Because we haven’t seen Alfred and Tim interact face to face in the present in Fracture so I bet he’s fit to be tied, or at least as close as Alfred gets._

_Hi, babe. Ah, maybe not the Alfred thing for the injury/Healing thing, but a little more of the what-if? Yeah, yeah let’s see that._

****Fracture What-If continued for anon****

Sometimes in the cape and cowl gig, you learn to expect the unexpected.

Not in cases like  _this_  though.

“But!” And  _no_ , he’s not arguing with  _Batman_  about how working for the League of Assassins is, you know,  _wrong_. “I literally  _helped them_ , are you  _serious_  with me right now, B?”

Bruce, however, arches an unimpressed eyebrow while his jaw works. The fork in his right hand, however, moves smoothly out, points to the plate in front of Tim.

They’re sitting across from one another at one of the stainless steel workbenches, and the home cooked meal is just ( _fucking fantastic_ ) half gone while he talked through the events of the year B had been lost, keeping it low and factual as possible, carefully keeping his eyes on the shiny surface below his plate.

When it came to the Council of Spider’s part, the whole place going down, and Ra’s being  _super pissed about life_ , he’d been ready to down his coffee just as the “what the  _fuck_  were you  _thinking_  helping out that psychopath?” and the eventual, “maybe I  _should_  have dropped you at the Tower after all.” to hit him like a ton of fucking  _bricks_.

That is totally something he  _expects_  (because Robin had  _lines_  he couldn’t cross, and  _welp_ , those were left right the fuck in the dust, weren’t they?).

Instead, what he gets is:

“You were able to get in under the White Ghost’s radar as well as the entire  _League_. I hope you at least had a party to celebrate, Tim, but if I know you, then you’ve got footage  _somewhere_  with the look on Ra’s face.  _That?_  I would like to see.”

It struck him hard enough that he almost choked and drained his damn coffee anyway. (And B is absolutely  _correct_. It was actually his desktop background for a while, the quintessential  _Gotcha_ )

“So, you infiltrated with every intention of taking him down. Which you  _did_. I think congratulations is pretty appropriate here.”

“I–”

“To go even  _further_ , you managed to wrangle the Titans into protecting the people close to me Ra’s targeted, and you faced off with him yourself. Got it so far?”

He swallows the last bite, and straightens up slowly, standing off the rolling stool, still riding the sharp edges of  _owfuck_  in his damn knee and side. He knows B is watching him move to the counter where Alfred left the coffee warmer, probably assessing, maybe seeing the injuries on his back all over again. But, the redeeming caffeine is still a little piece of heaven.

“That’s also why you were CEO of Wayne Enterprises when I came back.”

Tim leans against the counter with his mug, battered and bruised, watching B watch him, and the shocky realization of  _how they got here_  still rocking his brain just  _slightly_ (his mental list of convos he’d never thought would ever happen just got even  _shorter_ ). “Yes,” he admits, slightly hunched over his mug.

“It was a good plan,” B returns quietly, “and you pulled it off. I’m not happy about the damage you took trying to find me, but…I’ll always be grateful, Tim.”

Staring down into the coffee, his too-long hair hiding just enough, he manages  _not_  to sound too choked up by the admission, “yeah? I guess…that makes two of us.”

*

The promise to stay until tomorrow night at least is hard won on both sides.

He’s not going up into the Manor proper (oh  _hell no_ ), but he finally agreed to stay and catch a few hours down in the Cave.

The draw of Bruce’s brows is enough to know he’s not happy with how  _that_  went, but before retiring for the mostly-over night, he pulls something out of the stainless steel workstation close to the Batcomputer and puts it in Tim’s lap.

The computer is sleek, and he blinks down at his logo on the top.

His throat might click just  _slightly_  when he swallows. The easy ruffle to his hair, the fuzzy blanket laid over his legs and hips, the subtle glances to bandaged bleeders, the fucking laptop ready to go  _with his symbol_ , and it has the young detective blinking up at Bruce from the medical bed with a combination of wary and worn—

( _He’s been abandoned too many times to trust just yet_ )

So Bruce doesn’t even pause to think about it, just puts a knee right on the bed and wraps his third Robin up all over again, pulling the kid into his strength, into a place that used to be only  _safe_. And one day, it would be  _again_.

Leaving Tim down in the Cave for the day still makes his hackles rise, but Bruce finally lets Tim go and heads up the winding staircase to get a few hours before he needed to be up and moving again, working out how he was going to give Tim the evidence he needed to  _believe_.

Not surprisingly, Dick is nursing a cup of coffee in the dark kitchen, looking out into the pre-dawn,

“You should try to get some sleep,” B lays a hand on one tense shoulder, gauging where his oldest son might be.

“…probably not going to happen. Thanks anyway, boss, but I’m fine.”

“I’ve heard that enough tonight, Dick,” and Bruce just steps up beside him, looking out, fitting his arm over Dick’s shoulder to draw the young man into his side.

“No,  _seriously_ —”

“You’ve always been harder on yourself than anyone else,” B counters, “you made the right choices, took on too much responsibility at once, ran yourself into the  _ground_  before you even put on the cowl.”

“Tim—”

“You were grieving too, Dick.”

The heavy sigh doesn’t make things  _better_ , doesn’t take all the weight, the guilt, the  _realization_. And even if it’s  _true_ , even if Dick Grayson was utterly  _wrecked_ , lost in immense grief as much as Tim and Dami were, he still takes the blame for doing it all  _wrong_.

“Yeah, I was.” The admission is quiet, unimportant, “but I…Bruce, I failed him. Everything…I just—”

“You weren’t trying to hurt him. Somewhere he realizes that, and even if it might take time, he’s going to understand where you were at the time and why things happened the way they did.”

“He’s…still here?”

B nods, a shift in the shadows, “I’ve got him until tomorrow night, so I’m going to get some sleep and hope he does, too.”

“Always have a plan.”

“You’ve learned well, Grasshopper.”

And it gets what he wants, a soft laugh, and a smile back on Dick’s face.

So B turns them both, gives Dick his best stern Dad look, “I’m going to tell you this again, just so you  _hear me_ this time, Dick. You did everything you thought was  _right_ , was for the best of Gotham, for the family, and for the mantle. You took care of Damian when he was likely to go back to the League and lose all the progress he’d made. You fought to make sure Jason wasn’t going to become the new Batman. You took care of Stephanie when she came back to be Batgirl and Cass needed to have a new name all her own. You kept track of Tim as much as you could while handling the city and Robin and the Justice League and all the other responsibilities that fell on you.”

And Dick still looks away, lowering his eyes, bowing his head because  _fuck_ , he’d  _tried_. He’d tried  _so hard_  to make sure everything wasn’t going to fall apart, to do what he  _had_  to do to walk in those shoes and preserve the name, the memory, all the  _good_  Batman did, to keep moving in the  _Mission_.

Timmy had been the unfortunate casualty—the one he miscalculated and let get lost in the aether.

Easy, Bruce brings the younger man in and holds on for long moments, “I’m sorry it all fell in your lap…that you had to fight so hard just to keep moving, that you had to give up things that are wholly  _yours_. I never wanted that for you, but…but, I’m still so  _proud_ of you, Dick. So proud at how you pulled everyone together, how  _you_ were their strength, and kept them moving forward. My son, the leader.”

When those arms wind around him, hold on  _tight_ , Dick’s usual  _octopus hold engaged_ , B feels immensely better about the night.

On the way out, to go up the massive staircase, Bruce looks back with a small smile at his oldest son ( _his first Robin_ ), “this might be the opportunity we  _both_  need, Dick. This… might even be the turning point.”

And what B is laying down gets through as those eyes slide through the dimness to the doorway where the grandfather clock lies in wait.

A final wave and Bruce heads upstairs, wondering how  _this_  might pan out for them.

*

His hands pause on the keyboard.

The slithery feeling of being  _watched_  makes him look up from the laptop screen, and Dick is sitting in a chair backwards, arms over the back, and his blue, blue eyes intensely  _focused_.

 _Uh-oh, we’ve been spotted, Captain_.

The scrutiny while Tim’s sitting on the medical bed with the last cup of coffee from the warmer balanced precariously on the heart monitor by him and the fuzzy blanket covering his legs as he puts down all the deets behind ass hat invaders, is only  _slightly_  uncomfortable.

(And makes him wonder how long Dick had been, you know,  _staring_ at him)

“Hi Timmy,” is something said soft and easy while the oldest Robin straightens up from his slouch.

His automatic reaction kicks like a reflex, “what do you  _need?_ ”  

“Just to talk,” is deceptively mild, something already  _off_. He is very sure he’s not going to like how  _this_  little convo is going to go.

“It’s late, and I have notes to get down—” He starts, going right back to where he left off with Dick, ducking and deflecting like a  _motherfucker_.

But,  _well_ , that’s just not going to happen this time.

“I thought about it for a long time,” the older vigilante starts, his eyes a deep, intense blue, “about why you called the Titans  _first_  when you knew Ra’s was going to be in Gotham trying to take out everyone Bruce loved. I thought about  _why_  you had to be the one to take on Ra’s, why you had to be alone to do it. Conner or Bart could have done their part and been to you in no time. But…it was just  _you_.”

And something dangerous is churning here, something he doesn’t want to hear out of Dick Grayson’s mouth.

“And I realized how well you  _lied_  to me, Tim. Later, after I caught you, when you woke up right there,” and a finger comes out to point at the bed he’s still sitting on, “and told me you  _knew_  I’d catch you, that I would  _always_  be your brother.”

And he sees it, Dick winding  _up_. It’s in how his eyes start to narrow, how his shoulders get  _tight_ , how his hands hold on to the back of the chair so he stays sitting down.

“It took me so  _long_  to  _get it_ , Tim. And I only  _did_  because you used the same thing on me once before, back when your dad was just murdered and you had the gun he used. You answered the phone with the same tone of voice, the same calm, cool, and collected. ‘Nothing to see here, I’m  _fine_  with how the world is fucking ending,’ right Timmy?”

But Tim is only blinking rapidly back, wondering where the fuck Dick is  _going_  with all of this.

“I  _knew_  that gun was loaded,” is soft and dangerous, “I knew that if I hung up the phone, I would be walking in on your body. That’s how  _close_  to the line you were walking, how far being Robin pushed you.”

Very carefully, Tim closes the laptop, gives Dick the full weight of his stare. He’s not going to go anywhere until whatever  _point_  Dick is trying to make is out there in the open (because, you know, the guy is  _really_  an asshole when he wants to be).

“And with Ra’s…with  _Ra’s_ , Tim. Did you really have a contingency, or was that just another loaded gun pointed at your head?”

The way his heart beats hard, saliva pools in the back of his mouth, the way his hands twitch to clench into fists, none of it matters anymore because—

“You know,” in a quiet voice, sliding the laptop aside because he needs to  _deflect_  like a motherfucker (not having this convo, sure as  _hell_  not with Dick), “I wasn’t your  _responsibility_  anymore, so what did it really even matter? No one  _died_ , and the day was fucking  _saved_ , right? All good.”

“ _All good?_ ” The older vigilante repeats, looking somewhat stunned, “you moved out of the Manor behind my back. You took everything and  _left_  without even saying good-bye.” And now the trying to have a calm conversation is  _out_  because Dick moves fluidly, pacing with a roll to his hips, eyes zeroing in so he doesn’t miss any more  _tells_ , doesn’t let Timmy fade away into obscurity again. “Not to even  _mention_  when I came down here one night to use Matches car, and you know what was suddenly just  _there_ , Tim?  _The Redbird_.”

Dick pauses a few feet from the bed, making the muscles in Tim’s shoulders automatically  _tight_  with the  _fight_  instincts.

(Not that Dick misses  _that_  at all)

“No sign of  _you_. Just the damn Redbird parked in the back where it wouldn’t even be  _noticed_. You took yourself out of our  _lives_ , Tim.  _You left us_.”

The residual  _it was never mine you asshole_  is right in the back of his mouth, bitter still even with the utter  _humiliation_  of crying on Bruce fucking Wayne.

But Tim glares up and lays it out without even a  _hitch_ , “I made the right choices,” is the echo back at the oldest Robin, making him flinch just slightly, “I wasn’t Robin anymore, and I sure as hell didn’t have a place here. So, I moved out and brought the Redbird back where it  _belongs_. You think it was ever really  _mine_ , Dick?”

The matter-of-fact demeanor, the cold neutrality hiding so many things from him (Timmy never used to hide from him, never  _had to_ ), makes Dick swallow hard around the lump suddenly in his throat, “how could you even—? You’re  _always_  going to have a place here—”

“That’s a lie, and we both know it,” is Tim tired of the bullshit,  _tired_  of putting one foot in front of the other without looking the fuck  _back_ (because there was nothing left to  _see_ ). “When you took the cape without giving me an opinion, without giving me a  _chance_ , that’s all the evidence I needed. I got  _more_  than I bargained for, but that’s where it all started.” Careful of his leg, Tim shifts, stands up beside the bed so he isn’t having this little talk sitting down, so he can look Dick in the eye and get this  _big brother bullshit_ to  _stop_.

“Your Robin didn’t mind telling me how it is, you know. How I’m just riff raff, a placeholder, that I never should have  _worn_  the R, that I shouldn’t even  _be here_.” Tim’s eyes are hard, one hand gestures to the Cave around them, “it didn’t matter how I  _bled_  for that name, for that cape. It didn’t matter to either of you because when you said ‘equals,’ you didn’t  _mean it_. You probably never  _did_. It started making  _sense_  to me then, Dick, why it was so easy for you. I’d have felt better getting some of that responsibility off my back, too.”

But Dick flinches, looks utterly stricken at the conclusion, at the logic, his mouth open but no sound coming out. His eyes are wide again, wide and very, very blue.

Taking in a slow, even breath, Tim doesn’t let himself go there like he did with Bruce, doesn’t let his eyes get  _wet_  with old pain and realizations, doesn’t let himself get lost in how fucking  _agonizing_  it was to realize how much  _better_  it must have been after he left, how Dick could stop all the fucking pretenses and just be…relieved.

“And I  _get it_ , Dick, I really do. How  _much_  it all must have been, fighting Jason, taking on the cowl, trying to keep Damian from murdering anyone  _else_. You didn’t need another line item to check off, and you made the logical choice on what needed cut.” A muscle in Tim’s jaw twitches, but his eyes are cold and hard, neutral when he takes a few steps to put him closer to his former mentor and friend. “I get  _why_  you couldn’t even look me in the  _face_  when you did it. I mean, why  _bother?_  I wasn’t your responsibility anymore. I was Bruce’s Robin, not  _yours_ , so it was  _fine_ , right?”

“No! No, Tim—!” And now Dick looks like he’s swallowed something  _horrific_ , his eyes wide and shocked.

“Yes,” he counters softly, “because I figured it all out a  _long_  time ago, Dick, how dangerous I must have been to you. Just a few seconds watching Robin do a quadruple flip and I figured out your secret, right?  I was some fucking rich kid that was too smart to let  _go_ , not when I could out Nightwing as Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne as Batman, so you let B start up the training regimen even though it  _never should have been me_. But, the cape was enough to keep me  _satisfied_ , gave me a secret ident to protect too, right?”

But Dick’s brain is on rapid fire with what Tim is really  _saying_ , what he must have always been  _thinking_. “That’s—that’s not—that was  _never_ —” he sputters, horrified at how  _long_  this must have been churning in Tim’s thoughts, how he thought being Robin was just some  _trade-off_  to keeping their identities a secret.

“I forced myself into your world and pretty much took  _your name_. I wasn’t  _chosen_ , I wasn’t special like you and Jason. I’m not blood like Damian,” because  _one of these things does not belong_. “So, the truth, the real truth?” And Tim swallows, fighting down the pulse red and meaty in the back of his throat, “I didn’t  _deserve_  the R in the first place, did I? I didn’t  _earn it_ , so that made it easy for you to finally get the right person, the little brother you really  _wanted_.”  And obviously you made the right  _choice_ , didn’t you?”

Dick literally can’t  _breathe_ , feeling like he’s been kicked in the lungs hard enough for something inside his chest to  _break_.

“Bruce…was okay with me wearing it for a while, but I can’t even  _imagine_  how much it must have  _sucked_  for you to know I was the one in it after Jason,” and the admission is a little hoarse, a little choked because he really doesn’t want to  _think_ about Dick really resenting him all this time, just putting up with him because he’d figured everything out, because Bruce gave him the  _okay_  to wear the cape, picturing Dick mentally flinching every time he saw it, had to call him  _that_  name. “But it’s  _fine_  now,” he has to look away, to firm his jaw and straighten his back as much as he  _can_  with the burning pull of healing injuries, “all’s well that ends well. We can all finally move the  _fuck_  on with our lives and whatever this is, this  _act_ ,” he waves a hand around again, looking at a very uninteresting spot on the wall, “you can drop it any time. No more of this little brother crap and no hard feelings, okay? We just do what we do and keep  _moving_ —”

But the thing about Dick? His goofy, snarky regular guy feel is deceptive enough to sometimes forget:

 _The guy was Batman_.

Fast and silent, when the antithesis hits him like Bane’s fist between the eyes and his fucking heart  _breaks_ , he moves like he’s all shadow. He manages to pretty much body slam Tim with absolutely  _no regrets_ , and the momentum carries them to land back on the medical bed in a tangle of flailing limbs and noises of pain/sur- _what-the-shit?_

“ _What the **fuck**!?”_

But the older Robin just shoves his face into Tim’s throat and holds on, fully aware he’s probably hurting Tim, laying on him and bracketing him in with both arms, but he can’t even  _help_  himself. His sixth sense, the one that made him an awesome older brother and a good leader, the sense that alerted him when someone he cared about was in  _pain_ , totally failed him.

 _Epically_  failed him.

“I can’t…Timmy, I  _can’t even_ —” Dick sucks in a breath against the scent of Kevlar and blood, “how?  _How_  could you just—! Just  _put up_ with me while you thought  _any_  of that could be true?”

And even with the pain from Dick grinding into his aching knee and the hard stings at his mid-back, even with the hot breath against his throat and the heart beating rapidly against his shoulder, he can still feel Dick  _shaking_.

“How could you let yourself just keep moving while you were  _thinking_ these things?”

The actual  _hurt_  in Dick’s voice, the body pinning him down, the old feeling of that familiar, inescapable hold is more than  _he_  certainly bargained for out of  _this_  little sitch.

Apparently, it’s going to be a very fucked-up night where he should really have planned better to expect the unexpected.

**

**

_**Calculation** _

[@poison-basil](https://tmblr.co/mk2YUz4TtkAdfCDDKeKuYlw) did  ** _beautiful_**  art for Fracture and I just! Fangirl squealed like a BOSS, okay? Because it’s epic and I have so many  _feels_. [Here](http://poison-basil.tumblr.com/image/164615600140) and [here](http://poison-basil.tumblr.com/post/164714022950/iphoenixrising-another-image-inspired-by) are the lovely things I will be adding when the next chapter is done.  _But_ , this little thing because my artist wants  _Dick forgets Tim’s birthday_  (maybe with a little Jason Todd snark thrown in). And for such  _nice things_ , yes, babe,  _yesss_.

**

The ensuing awkward  _fuckery_  is getting on his  _last_  goddamned nerve,  _Dickie_. Pull your shit together, man.

“I can’t believe I  _forgot_ ,” because now the oldest Robin is hitting the shock/denial phase. Hood  _sees_  where this train is going—and he feverently says a short prayer for Baby Bird’s  _sanity_.

Because Dick Grayson is about forty-five bemoaning minutes away from making a  _plan_  and sticking right the hell to it (Jay had been there for the great “Forgot the Day He Came to Wayne Manor” anniversary of ‘16. B and Alf were ready ta  _murder_  him if he didn’t  _Shut. The. Fuck. Up_ ).

From his usual leaning against the Batcomputer’s main console while Dickie bitched and complained, pacing on his hands part of the time—Jay has a few more  _regrets_  about this little sitch.

He shoulda just  _let it ride_  instead of coming here to let the Bats have a piece of his goddamned  _mind_. ‘Cause you better  _believe_  he’d been pretty pissed off ta find Baby Bird alone in Titan’s Tower on his fucking birthday, just going about his everyday  _usual_.

“No super brats?” Had been his first clue.

“It’s Thursday,” had been Timmy’s comeback from behind that dom, “everyone else has  _lives_  and stuff, you know.”

His, “what the  _shit_ , Timmy?” had been followed up with a plainly wrapped box tossed in the kid’s lap, taking off the helmet so Baby Bird could actually  _see_  him sneering.

“Oh,” had been faint, shocked, half-choked, and it made Jay  _just_  pissed enough to plan on letting some motherfuckers  _know_  how goddamned  _disappointed_  he is (at least  _Alf_  called ahead and made sure plenty of eats were sent ahead for Master Tim. Today of all days, you mustn’t neglect yourself).

The night turned out s’all right anyhow.

The ensuing hangover Baby Bird was riding the next morning was  _not_.

Jay made sure to have coffee, aspirin, and water ready before he left the Tower for home, letting Timmy suffer in peace, still snoozing on the couch in the Commons room.

Coming to Wayne Manor was the first shake-down, but Dickie just  _has_  to take all the fun outta being an asshole, the miserable fuck. Seriously, he came here to give a right  _bitching_  and Dick’s just screwing it all up by being  _sorry_.

Jay rolls his eyes ( _again_ ), “shit happens, Dick. Kid gets it, you feel me?”

“Not good enough, Jay,” the acrobat immediately decides and flips back on his feet with determination. “He’s still not really even  _okay_  with us yet, and this could be a real set-back.”

When Dickie gets  _that look_  on his face, Jay slowly raises both hands, palm out in a placating  _slow your roll_  kind of way.

“Now  _hold on_  a minute. Don’t start making any  _plans_ —” which would have been followed-up with  _you’ll scar him for **life**_. But the former Robin, former Batman, current Nightwing, just arches a brow at the Red Hood and grins, wide and white, in the darkness of the Cave.

With an irritated sigh, Jay idly thinks about laying a little  _knowledge_  down on Dickie (maybe ‘bout how Timmy told him the down and dirty  _deets_  while he was piss-faced drunk, lookin’ at him with those dark eyes, admittin’ how much he  _wanted_ ,  _needed_  without sayin’ it outright), just letting him  _know_  maybe he oughta go apologize wearing a pair of skinny jeans and tank top instead of as the usual “big brother” thing he’s got going on.

( _But if he really can’t figure it out being a goddamned detective and all, then it’s really his own_ fault _anyhow_ ).

Instead, Jay just shakes his head at the antics of vigilantes and turns to start up into the Manor proper, mentally washing his hands of the whole sitch entirely.

(Sorry Timmy, but this might be the most entertaining thing ta  _watch._ )

**

Red is about to  _lose his ever-loving mind_.

For seven days— _seven_ —he’s been thrown up against the usual assortment of baddies and their ilk with the casual crime stomping, just getting into the stride of his week and whatnot. It seems, however, that his usuals are somehow  _more_ annoying than ever, like someone is helping them with their nefarious evil plots. The Church of the Blood is up to their old tricks, H.I.V.E is really trying his patience with a particle accelerator, and even Bloody Mary seems to have suddenly  _stepped up her game_  to  _more_  than the run-of-the-mill, power-sucking baddie.

Is there a full  _moon_  or something?

Just,  _what the fuck is happening?_

Patched up as much as he can be while finally able to just  _sit down_  after the week he’s had, Red pops two more ibuprofen in the fervent  _hopes_  it might touch the all-over pain he’s got going on right now. Kon had come by a few hours ago after he heard about The Church’s surprise attack with only Red Robin to circumvent the obvious  _bad_  in the form of an organic bomb that would probably do terrible damage to the population of regular people just trying to get a cup of coffee or some shit at God o’clock in morning.

The slew of bruises and contusions on his upper body are starting to be a little more  _owfuck_  than he realistically wants to deal with at this juncture, but when Kon kept  _poking_  the angry bruise below his shoulder blade  _enough is fucking **enough**_.

“Don’t make me get out the kryptonite, dude,” he manages to hiss out as yet  _another_  poke makes the spot throb.

“You didn’t even  _call us_ , douche bag, so I don’t want to hear it.” The super snarks back without a flinch. “You’re lucky I’m not  _Cassie_  right now.”

Both Titans pause, look at one another, and share a nod of understanding. “It hurts like fuck, but I’m okay. Not dying this week, I promise.”

Kon…hadn’t laughed at that oddly enough. “If there’s another alarm,  _Call. Me. You. Ass_. _Hat._  Got it?”

He almost says something inordinately stupid like  _not while you’re in class,_ dude, _finals are a bitch,_  but thinks better of it once he gets the full look at Kon’s unhappy face and tense frame. In twenty minutes, the guy is heading back to Kansas with those glasses on and his whole  _I’m such a super nerd_  thing going on, leaving Red to hurt  _in peace_.

…until the Batwing touches down on top the Tower, and he’s gets yet  _another_ thing to deal with.

When N hops down out of the cockpit, Red seriously facepalms with an audible groan of  _oh God, why now_  and already feels his cheeks heating up with a little residual embarrassment at what he could have possibly told the Red Hood the last time he visited the Tower.

Hopefully, there’s just a case in Gotham that needs his brand of expertise. If not, he’s going to have an even  _worse_  day with all the bumbling excuses and “Hood doesn’t know how to take a  _joke_ , Dick. You’re always going to be my  _brother_ , okay?”

(But what if things don’t go  _that way_? What if Dick is here to—? Really, dumb ass? It’s  _Dick_  for fuck’s sake.)

So he heaves his hurting ass up out of his comfy computer chair, still fully suited up, and meets Nightwing on the Communal Floor with a wave and a pot of fresh coffee.

And even though he  _knows_  it’s coming, the octopus hold that is truly  _inescapable_ , he still flinches, lets out a noise when his injuries are jostled.

( _Everyone has a bad week, right?_ )

The obvious reaction reaches N, who puts him right down with eyes wide behind the dom. He catches an arm when Red starts to list to the left, trying to blink away the gray edges distorting his vision.

He barely gets a word in before the mother-hen instincts are  _on_  and Dick’s innate sixth sense kicks into overdrive.

But, after all the strain, he’s seriously running on  _fumes_  here and it’s just…really  _nice_  to be a limp noodle in Nightwing’s arms, to lay back and let someone else take charge.

“Timmy?!”

“S’okay. All of ‘em are wrapped up. Think I’m just tired, been a long week.” And it’s a stupid thing how he can let his cheek rest on N’s shoulder, lay against all that strength, allow himself to be taken care of for once. So he completely doesn’t fight it when Nightwing picks him up with an arm under his knees, and carries him out of the Communal Floor to the Perch.

In his own bedroom, those hands are stripping off his harness and utility belt, then the outer armor until the bodysuit is pushed down to his hips and the bandages are carefully unwound, gauze pads gently removed.

“Baby Bird, you’ve had a rough one,” N has removed his gloves, gauntlets, and domino, turning into Dick while he gently checks each injury and gingerly rewraps them. “Timmy, I’m so  _sorry_.”

Still half-fuzzy with sleep dep, blood loss, and variable layers of exhaustion, Red laughs a little from his prone position, stripped to the skin above the waist. “Sorry? Bad guys are assholes, Dick. It’s not your fault.”

The older vigilante sucks in a breath and leans closer to him so he doesn’t have to lift his head from his pillow to look him in the eyes.

“Tim…I may have…I may have, um… _helped_  your bad guys a little?”

Wait,  _what now?_   

“Wait, what now?” Yup, he’s awake. “You  _helped_  my bad guys? You helped my bad guys. How… You know, just  _why_ … What would fucking possess you to  _help_ t he  _bad guys_ , Dick?””

But Dick catches him by the arms before he can be up and out of bed, holding him still so the taller vigilante can lean down and put them only a few inches apart, “because I missed your birthday, Tim, and I… I felt so terrible about it. You turned twenty and I  _missed it_.”

It takes a little  _effort_  to pick up his jaw where it drops open. “Are you telling me, you helped my bad guys with terrible world-domination plans because you missed my  _birthday?_  How does that even make  _sense?_ ”

Maybe he lost more blood than he thought _._

Dick smiles a little and his nose crinkles, “Timmy. I  _know_  you. You like a challenge in any mission you take on. I might have anonymously helped out Brother Blood with the bomb schematics because I know  _you_  would not only disarm it, but you’d have  _fun_  writing the code to takie it apart.”

His mouth opens, works soundlessly because, welp, that? Is actually true. He kind of  _did_  enjoy breaking the encryption.

“And H.I.V.E. always has those chemical weapons you like destroying so much, along with all the labs you get to take down—”

 _Fuck, also true_.

“—and you still have a grudge against Bloody Mary for the last fight she had with Cassie, so I thought you might want an opportunity to get  _back_  at her. I mean, taking her down when she’s at her most powerful is probably going to crush her ego into minor league super villain  _bits_.”

Now he’s blinking at Dick’s hilariously genuine expression because  _it’s all so true_. He has no idea  _how_  Dick even  _knew_  all of this.

“I was trying to have a contingency in case one or two of them didn’t take the bait, but I guess I might have…overdone it a little? I just checked all the week’s reports and figured they all came for you at once. I’m sorry, Tim, I’m so sorry you got hurt—”

But his chest is swelling with affection and gratitude, so much that his hands move without forethought, coming up to wind around Dick’s shoulders, and pull the older vigilante right against the front of his body  _tight,_  regardless of the residual  _owfuck_.

“Hey,” and his voice doesn’t sound like that, deep and watery, “no hard feelings, okay? Total NBD. But that…Dick, that is so  _awesome_.  _Thank-you_. Best. Present. Ever, seriously.”

And if there’s any other languages Dick is fluent in? It’s the language of  _hugs_.

Easy of the injuries, still firm and supportive, Dick wraps him up tight, nuzzles the top of his head like he’s still that nosy kid who found himself saying stupid shit (you know, like how Batman  _needs_  a Robin?) to bad ass vigilantes.

“I should have come by sooner,” is the apologetic admission, “to make sure you were okay. That’s a lot to handle, even for  _you_.”

He waves a vague hand and gives absolutely  _no shits_  about relaxing right backing into Dick’s shoulder and chest, his eyes sliding slowly closer to  _comfortable_ and  _calm_. He might mumble something about not being as bad as his usual Wednesday to get a soft chuckle in reply.

(And if the ensuing night commences with a terrible Sci-Fi marathon and mounds of junk food, of laughing and pjs, of being wallowed on and coddled within an inch of his  _life_ , of having the closeness they  _used_  to have, well, it might not have been what he really  _wanted_ , but still, not bad at all).

**


	16. AOB Drabs from Tumblr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AOB Drabbles. Warning for NSFW Dick/Tim/Jay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These have been on Tumblr for a while and I’m just lazy and full of deadlines now. Shit. My life.

#  _The Pack_

Once he got the message, he was out of the Tower like a  _shot_ , pushing the Batplane to go as fast it could possibly could. Set the thing to an auto-pilot landing and dropped out once he was over his Perch in Gotham. A quick shower and change of clothes takes the scent blockers off, civvies makes sure there’s no mask. He would need to play this one  _loud_  and  _clear_.

He’s hitting the basement hideout where all his  _toys_  are, throwing himself on a Ducati while his nerd shirt sticks to him and his hair is still leaking wet down the back of his neck.

Racing through Gotham, making the fucking thing, pushing it and without, you know,  _eating pavement_  and shit, his heart is pounding with all the implications and contingencies.  The city becomes rural, becomes familiar twisting pathways, paths he travelled in the Red Bird, paths he knew by more than just muscle memory now (and isn’t it  _fucked up_  how close he’s come again, how much he thought he’d only get further and further away when it just becomes  _opposite_  year or some shit).

The familiar fork in the path is the right side, the night broken by his headlight.

The Cave entrance is never  _not_  going to be a mind-fuck. No matter how many times you  _roll up in_. He still revvs it, pulls and arches at the same time, jumping the bike over a small chasm to hit the other side without the need to slow down and do shit the long way.

No time for it.

Even when he hits the brakes, the side slide is on one leg. He throws himself off the damn thing to take off at a run, the very real call he’s about to answer makes his stomach flutter, makes him physically  _ache_.

It’s the first time he’s really done something like  _this_  for the Pack.

Well, since they found out the whole different secret ident, that is.

Male Omega because, you know, it’s just the secret he kept— from  _Batman_.

( _Who are you kidding, dude? World’s. Greatest. Detective.)_

He doesn’t even have the helmet off, still fumbling with the thing by the time he hits the main area where the big computer, lab, and medical area are easily seen from all sides. The circle of Bats in  _oh shit_  mode really makes the  _importance_ of this little  _please come home, we need you_  message hold some weight.

Thanks for the knowledge-drop, B. Maybe a little more warning next time and  _this_  little sitch could be better  _avoided_.

He gets the helmet off, joining the circle between Dami and Steph, the only one doing day wear when there’s capes, masks, and hands moving to utility belts everywhere.

Cass, however, is a whole lot of snarling, rabid  _not having that shit_. She’s ruthless when she lunges the second Dami’s hand goes to the pellets, attacking the Baby Alpha and reeking of whatever toxin Crane used on her.

And he  _sees_  the move, sees the utter brutality and speed that is part David Cain and part Shiva, he sees how Cass is close to  _out of control_. He sees the others start to move to counter her, he  _sees_  how this little thing is going to go  _down_.

The bitch really is how he can stop it all with  _one move_.

And not, you know, the usual ass-kicking, out-thinking, be a fucking  _vigilante_  kind of move.  _Nope_ , it’s something altogether different, something he’s never really…done before, but damn if his instincts don’t know the way better than he does at this juncture.

While his heart pounds, while everyone moves in a crazy kind of slow motion, he breathes in, closes his eyes, steels himself, and lets his rigid control over his instincts release.

From deep in his belly,  _deep_  in his lungs, the noise claws up out of him, something so odd, the shape of it in his throat full and encompassing, something he never gives  _power_  to, something he keeps held back at all cost.

It finally gets to be  _free_.

The low half-call, half-whine makes the entire pack  _freeze_  in mid-motion. Dick and Jay, B and Alfred, Steph and Dami, but more importantly,  _Cass_.

The Black Bat eye mask snaps toward him, her fists uncurling and the tension for the first blow leaves her forearms and wrists.

And his instincts guide him, lead him to tilt his head just slightly, to show her the bare span of his neck where their scents are subtle but  _now_  such a part of him, the noise comes up again, taking up space in his chest and throat, calling out to her, to one of the Alphas that belonged to  _him_ , calling her to his side because she so obviously needed. She needed so fucking  _much_.

The fear in her scent, the edge of desperation, it tells him all he needs to  _know_.

No one moves, only Cass still in Black Bat, lunging at him with her crazy speed.

She leaps over Dami without pause, wrapping an arm around his waist, and leaps again, her momentum carrying them up high over the Batmobile parked in the usual spot.

She lands it on an outcropping, something hidden from the ground below, and just like he  _expects_ , Cass folds herself down, pulling him with her to sit his ass right in the niche of her folded legs. Her arms are desperate and trembling minutely around his upper body, her face in his shoulder, while she avoids jabbing him with her mask, she still buries her face in his scent, draws in a deep lungful to try combatting the drug.

He doesn’t even  _think_  about it (because she’s  _his_  just like all those other stupid assholes below them, gathering around the Batmobile, but not daring to intrude), just wraps both arms around her in return, purrs low and soft so she knows he isn’t going anywhere, she’s safe with him. She’s always going to be safe with him, and he’s easy about nuzzling his nose into her cheek where he can reach, is easy about making circles on her back, is gentle when his soft purring vibrates against her arms (and gives the concerned Batfamily below a little bit of  _relief_  since they  _know_  it’s their Pack Omega caring for one of their own).

And it’s warm there, it’s warm and safe.

Even if her vision is still terrifyingly  _real_  with old blood and corpses, with her father’s heavy hand and her mother’s mad smiles, with gore and viscera hanging all around her, she can still scent that  _safety_. She can fight through the visuals to rely on her other senses.

“Did they give you the antidote?” Tim asks sometime later, his nose buried behind her ear.

She might give a huff or an affirmative, floating in his scent and strength.

Tim is easy about it when she finally smells calm, when her heart has stopped beating so hard in her chest, when she  _eases down_. He maneuvers to lift her without dislodging her nose from him, just subtly shifts her closer to his throat where no scent blockers cover anything. She might start purring sleepily by the time he gets them to the ledge, glances down over the Pack in civvies, holding a vigil by the Batmobile with cups of coffee and hot chocolate, blankets and pillowed on one another.

B catches sight of him first, sharp eyes looking up at their Omega holding Cass up in both arms, his leap down is easy, trying not to jostle her out of the headspace.

The Pack hobbles to their feet, follows him to the medical area where he nudges his ass cheeks up on the gurney and shift to lay down with Cass on top him, her face in his throat, making pointless soothing noises while he starts making circles on her back again.

B manages a blood sample, glad when she doesn’t snap at him at all, just lays against Tim’s chest, hazy and content.

Her cape is detached by Dick’s nimble fingers, the Pack Alpha leaning down to nuzzle against her. But the tinge of shame hits their noses and she abruptly blinks wet eyes, cringing back from it because she could have,  _would have_ —

Pack Leader would have stopped her before it went too far, but she still  _could have_  attacked her own  _pack_.

Dick, however, just rumbles low, the noise settling in the base of her spine, works his cheek gently against hers, licks over her pulse without even a  _hint_ of hesitation.

And for the Alpha that was once-upon-a-time a child, a child with a pack that did nothing but abuse her, betray her, try to make her nothing more than a  _weapon_ , her expectation of things like  _belonging_ and love and acceptance is still so painfully skewed.

Dick doesn’t press hard, doesn’t force,  _never_  forces, but nudges easily, playfully against her cheek, trying to tickle her a little, coming to a crouch by the gurney so he can reach her without bending over. He finally succeeds in raising her wet face and he can nuzzle against her nose.

When Cass gives in and lets Dick comfort her, the others slowly start stepping around the gurney, scents and easy touches,  _safe_  touches. Low, soft rumbles and the scent of relief, of worry, surround the Pack, brings them even closer.

While the analysis runs and Alfred gets Cass to drink cool water from a straw, while B noses against the top of her head and huffs in irritation (because how could she ever  _doubt_  they would  _understand?_ ), while Steph shoves the second gurney next to the first so they rest of them can pile on, while Dami licks over the pulse in her wrist because she’s too inundated to reach the spot at her throat, while Jay stands at the head of the gurney and lets her other hand grip his  _tight_  as he leans over and rumbles something deep, while all that is happening in a smooth progression, the others start piling on the other gurney.

B nudges Tim’s hip to lay half on the gurney beside them; Dick, Dami, and Steph pile on the second gurney to reach out and touch with easy hands while Alfred takes a rolling stool and lays a hand on her ankle, and Jason gives  _no shits_  about laying his heavy body over all of them.

And until Cass is cleared and her scent losing the edges of fear and despair, no one,  _no one_ , moves.

 **  2  **

_Note: People have been so kind about this AU attempt. Ah, I got a request to see the mating bite thing, but ya see, it’s like this…_

 “I’m not ready,” even though he’s right about it, even though it physically fucking  _hurts_ , he says it only because he  _means_  it.

Jay is blinking, the beer bottle paused halfway to his mouth.

Dick looks over at them both from his place at the stove in Timmy’s Perch, making some incredible smelling soup.

“For dinner?” Dick’s brows are drawn together, a hand gesturing to the simmering pot.

Tim doesn’t faceplam, but it’s a  _close thing_.

“ _No_ , Dick, for…” he sighs, rubs a hand over his forehead.

And since he’s become so comfortable with these  _idiots_  in the last few months, he’s hasn’t been worrying about the damn scent blockers when it’s just, you know, Pack.

So they’re getting the anxiety tinging his normal Omega sweetness. And he realizes  _that_  just a little too late.

Alpha is just  _there_ , picking him up out of his chair and up, an arm under his ass so the nose nuzzling into his is just at the right height. Jason is just as on his Alpha game apparently, and is purring against his back, idly licking up pulse to reinforce the scent of Alpha male and Pack.

“Ah,  _dammit_ ,” because  _really_ , they weren’t this bad until he stopped wearing blockers and using fake Beta scent to cover-up his natural Omega sweetness. Now, he gets about the same ridiculous treatment as everyone else when their scents start to change with anxiety or fear—  _Comfort the Precious Packmate_.

“All right, put me down. It’s  _fine_ ,” he starts, but Dick and Jason just purr louder against him, not believing him for  _one fucking second_.

Sometimes, the struggle is  _real_.

But, Tim still swallows hard, back rigid in Dick’s hold, his eyes drawn to the unimpressive ceiling, “What I mean is…I…I’m not ready…to-to  _bond_.” He closes his eyes, feels the both of them straighten up from his throat and face. “I’m not ready for that yet.”

His thighs around Dick’s hips go a little loose so he can catch himself if Dick just, you know, might let him go or—or something because Omegas are usually already in a bond agreement by the time they’re in their  _teens_  and even before that (because arranged matings are pretty fucked up, but the world is what it is), so it would be completely  _understandable_  if they expected to make a bond sooner rather than later since, well, he’s not getting any  _younger_  here.

( _But the thought of being pregnant right now, of carrying a young fills his veins with ice water, makes the fear in his chest rise, his throat clog with things he shouldn’t_ say _as an Omega in his prime_ )

So he just wants to—to throw it out there incase that’s where this nice little ‘ _see me through my Heats and I’ll help you with your Ruts_ ’ thing is going to pan out (so Dick never forgets to give him the injection in his thigh, to keep seed from taking  _root_ ).

It seemed like a good plan.

“Timmy,” Jay noses behind his ear, “c’mon Timmers, lookit here.”

“I’m—I’m not saying  _never_ , I’m not saying anything but just—” he tries desperately, still looking up at the damn ceiling because this could be a fucking  _nightmare_.

He’s already submitted to them, hasn’t he?

“Stop,” Dick hushes gently, dragging his tongue under Tim’s chin, over the side of his jaw. “ _No one_  is going to make you bond before you’re ready, okay? No one made Gar, and even if you were outed as your daytime pseud, we would still keep up whatever pretenses we needed to without compromising you, okay? We would keep you  _safe_.”

The relief, the utter fucking  _relief_ , makes his body sag in Dick’s hold, makes him bend just-just a little.

“Nope,” Jay huffs against the back of his neck, those broad hands at his thighs to squeeze. “Ain’t gotta do that, baby, you feel me? We gotcha bond er no bond ‘til ya d’cide otherwise.”

He lets his heavy head fall on Dick’s shoulder, one hand gripping the side of Alpha’s neck while the other goes down to circle Jay’s wrist.

He’s not shaky at all,  _really_.

“Timmy?  Did you think we were going to be  _mad_  at you or something?” Dick asks incredulously, eyes wide when the subtle hints make the Omega’s scent a little sweeter.

Wisely, Tim pulls out his most effective weapon: “Dinner in my apartment is a pretty nice way of showing me everything is fine. It smells awesome, by the way.”

“Timmers,” Jay breathes against the back of his neck in warning.

“Could you put me down? This really isn’t helping.”

One last nuzzle from both Alphas and he’s back on his feet, the Alphas that apparently  _know_  him well enough to take a step back, give him some much needed  _space_.

“Okay,” he sighs, running a hand through his too-long hair, “look. I wasn’t…I wasn’t  _good_  with the Bats for a while, okay? Don’t get me wrong, it’s…nice to be back. I like coming back in Gotham without having to do everything on the down-low, but when it all got,” one hand flails about to encompass things like fuckery, “bad—”

“You mean we found out you were an Omega,” Dick interjects gently, arms crossed over his chest while Jay moves to stir the soup.

“Yes,” Tim comes back slowly, drawing the word out because, really, what else  _could_  he have meant? “When the truth came out, I expected things to change.” He didn’t say  _feared_ things would change.

Good on him.

“The laws are what they are, and in some place Omegas are still,”  _second-class citizens_ ,  _tied to breeding benches and fucked until they catch, bonded without **consent**_ , “under…under an Alpha’s control until they’re,”  _sold, bartered, kidnapped,_ “… _mated_. It would make sense if—if you expected to-to mate me before I turned 21. I mean…”

But  _dammit_ , he’s shaking again, just slightly, just enough that he clasps his own hands together to stop it, finally folds his arms across his chest. The old fears are still there ( _are always there_ ), the ones that drove him to hide what he was from the moment he presented alone in an empty house while Mom and Dad were on a dig in Madagascar. The ones that got him motivated enough to order synthetic Beta scent, to mix just enough of his own to be believable and unique without giving himself away (those Junior Chemistry kits came in handy after all); the ones that drove him to start training himself  _out_  of giving in to his instincts, letting those urges and wants rule him.

Less than two months later, he was on his way to Hong Kong and prove to Batman he could wear the R without dying.

“No,” Jay fills in because he can see how tense Dickie’s back is with this little talk. As Alphas, they  _know_  the bullshit ‘Megas gotta suffer ‘cause a laws what don’t give ‘em the same freedom everyone else gets. How ‘Megas are still sold underground and every mother _fucker_ turns the other way. They’ve taken out enough hotspots in their time as vigilantes. Timmy’s  _more violent than usual_  makes sense; Jay and Dick might be right there  _with him_  now that they imagine his face on every abused Omega they get out into police cars, at least get them to rehabilitation facilities with professionally paid Support Alphas to help them recover.

“That…that ain’t gonna  _happen_ , Timmy. With what we do? What we  _seen_  happen? C’mon, Sugar,” and Jay reaches out for him, fingers in his hair and eyes soft with a crazy kind of affection, “we’ll have yer back, no matter whatcha decide.”

Dick hums in agreement, taking up more space, palming the side of his neck, rubbing a thumb over all the smell of  _pack_ , “we don’t want to push, baby. Believe me when I say that you? Are definitely worth waiting for.”

Jay presses lips to his forehead, closes his eyes with a huff, “if it don’t get there, Tim, it  _don’t_ , yeah? Ain’t gonna change where ya place is.”  _Here, with us_.

Dick leans in to nose playfully at the back of his neck, making a shudder go down his spine, “we’re here, Tim, however you need us, okay? Let’s just go with that.”

He might sag a little in their hold, utterly fucking  _relieved_.  He can move a little, slide his fingers in Dick’s hand and Jay’s belt loop, keep his Alphas close.

When they finally sit down to eat, to talk about the upcoming night, the pending board meetings, the cold cases, the path of drug dealers in the Bowery that always lead  _somewhere_ , it’s calm and content, smelling of spice and musk and  _Pack_. When they meet at the Wallstone later, B and Rob, Hood and N, Red and Black Bat, just a little BatGirl with a side of Oracle, the city is divided and the usual witty banter is exchanged (N got Rob to say “asparagus,”  _hilarity ensued_  because  _that_  will never not be funny).

B finally calls it and moves around his pack, power and strength and support, the mini-lecture ( _know you limitations_ ) spiced with underlying, subtle encouragements, everything leader and father, before he sends his partners off into the night. The slight curve under the cowl is all the things he’s finally done right.

**

_Warning, okay. A little NSFW here_.

**Anonymous**  asked:

oh man, poor tim if Dick and Jason have a rut at the same time. Theyre gonna wear him out sO BAD

Hm. At the  _same time_ , babe? I wonder how  _that_  might–

**

Tim rears back and  _screams._

The two Alphas surrounding him rumble low, soothing purrs, vibrating against his chest and back, so far  _gone_  into their Ruts, they’re sub vocal at this point. 

( _He is going to **get you** , B. Fucking. Seriously_.  _There is a whole slew of terrible daytime TV just waiting_ –)

His inner monologue stutter to yet another halt when his nerve ending shoot more pleasure through his whole body as the two Alphas start to  _move_. And it’s like a dance, Jay shifts  _up_  while Dick shifts  _down_ , starting a slow, sensual rhythm, trying to ease him into having  _both_  of them in him at the same time.

It was  _torture_  while they prepped him, growling when they ripped his clothes off viciously, mad with  _need_. Their scents and pheromones had hit his system like a fucking  _freight train_ , making him unbearable wet almost immediately, making his body open for them, slick and hot. Something in his scent had changed. The whole  _Open for Business_  a glaring, permeating tinge to his normal sweetness.  As fast as he is, as agile and intelligent, he didn’t even  _try_  to evade them once the onslaught was apparently  _Go_. 

And he would have  _never_  thought he could take them both like this, would have never thought he was  _built_  to be knotted by two Alphas at one time, but the unending pulses through his core, his cock, his nipples and throat, from everywhere they touch and lick and  _bite_  just makes the hazy line between pain/pleasure that much more  _intense_.

The noises keep falling out of him, muffled and eaten up by whichever Alpha shoves their mouths together to mimic the rhythm of movement inside him. 

“Oh  _God_ , oh  _God_ ,” he screams out when Dick hits his  _spot_  and drags his cock over it slowly. 

Against Jay’s abdomen, he spurts pre-come, and his whole body goes lax in their arms, trusting them to keep holding him up between them. And it might be something  _stupid_  like Alpha instincts or whatever that keep them holding him so  _tight_ , that keep them nuzzling into him, keep their free hands making it all  _more_  with flicks to his nipples and tugs to his straining cock, ghost touches over the sensitive parts of his body.

(It’s feeling  _too much_  like he’s  _theirs_  instead of just an O helping out some As…)

But he’s too  _gone_  already, too lost in the pressure making his belly wind tighter, push him closer and closer to the hazy lines of another spectacular orgasm to hold himself up, to make his thighs grip Jay’s hips or wind an arm around Dick’s neck. He just lays in Jay’s hands holding his thighs and Dick’s gripping his ass.

And the deep musk fills his senses all over again, making his eyes roll back, making him try to do  _something_  while the two speed up when they know he can take it, make them control him, use him,  _own_  him.

“Fuck… _Fuck_ , Alpha…Alpha  _please_ ,” falls right out of his mouth when it’s just  _toomuchnotenough_.

But the rhythm drives on, his body never empty, never  _without_. 

Tear well up in his eyes while he tries for a full breath around the whines coming from his chest.

Jay darts in to fuck his tongue inside their Omega’s mouth, giving a series of rapid, hard thrusts against Dick’s cock, the other Alpha adjusting and moving with him while they chase their ends.

A hand moves to palm him, to jerk his aching length, making him scream again. Dick’s hand in his hair jerking his head back so the noise can finish in Dick’s mouth.

And like they planned it, both Alphas stutter, move to slam  _home_. The final thrust deep in his body throws him over the edge, his cock exploding, and his brain shutting down completely when the pleasure shoots through him, throbbing through him as the knots expand inside him and fill him  _up_.

When he’s even minutely aware of anything  _other_  than how good and full and  _yes_  he feels, Jason is stroking the sweaty hair out of his face and Dick nuzzling into the nape of his neck affectionately, purring gently while his knot pumps their Omega  _full_. Jay rumbles when awareness makes Timmy  _tighten_  on him, milks his knot for  _more_.

Laying on their sides, braced in the soft sheets, bracketed on all sides by the scent of  _Happy Alpha_ , he weakly nuzzles back at Jay’s nose, rubs Dick’s thigh under his ass, and half passes out.

(Several days later, B is standing by the big computer, grinding his back teeth.  _The Spouse House_  is playing on every screen in the Cave and the Manor, and he is really going to have to hand it to Tim this time. It’s a good move.) 

**

**[foxfyre999](https://foxfyre999.tumblr.com/)**  asked:

How do you see Tim, Dick, and Jay bonding once Tim's finally ready? No mpreg needed, just the bonding itself.

_Hi babe :D_

_So…remember when I said these things are more biological? I think a bond in this world would work under the same premise. (In other words, smut, so be warned of mentions).  If we’re taking out the mpreg (that maybe, might, could happen in the future), then I’d probably see it as something like—_

**

There are days when being the CEO of a Fortune 500 pays  _off_.

You know, like a reservation for the night in the Penthouse with  _the best_  view of the city.

And while night falls over Gotham, he looks out over the skyline, watching the day slowly give way to night. Hands in the pockets of his slacks, still dressed to the nines from a long day of wheeling and dealing the new branch in Coast City, and it is very  _nice_  to be in the Penthouse of Wayne Tower, taking a few minutes to himself before his dates arrive.

(When he told them in no uncertain terms  _he_  was going to plan date night this week, his Alphas had been  _stunned_ , agreeable, but stunned)

The catered dinner had been delivered and is still warming, the champagne is chilling appropriately, and the amenities set out for a nice night without the usual crime fighting going down. He’s got supplies and the necessaries ready, everything prepared down to a  _T_.

(He loves it when a plan comes together)

He’s still standing by the big windows when the elevator  _bings_  and the doors slide softly open.

The first thing he gets is Jason Todd adjusting his cuff. His suit is cut sharp and utterly  _sinful_  outlining his broad frame tapering down to a narrow waist, and those eyes roll up to see him standing there, waiting for them. The smile is sharp, anticipatory.

Dick is completely at ease in his surroundings, watching everything, a  _predator_ , and the dark blue suit sets off his eyes crinkled in amusement. It moves with ease around him when he steps out with his second, emphasizing the roll of his hips, the  _power_.

_Oh_ as his pulse picks up speed and he swallows it back down in the vicinity of his chest, eyes all for the very,  _very_  attractive men that had apparently dressed up for him.

(And he’s absurdly  _glad_  he’s wearing scent blockers or else they might get a hint of proper Omega arousal.)

He meets them across the room, accepts the easy kisses, far past familiar when each of them take his mouth and follow it up with a kiss to the pulse in his throat. The conversation is light and moving, the food exquisitely prepared, the champagne easing everything into soft, fuzzy goodness.

He’s telling a story about the Riddler throwing his cane around while doing the usual bad guy monologue and just  _giving up all his plans_ when he twirled that stupid cane the wrong way and literally  _knocked himself out_. Just. Did it to himself.

Jay is wiping tears out of his eyes while he leans back to laugh harder. The bit when Tim just slips the ropes and gives the thugs a well-meaning glare with a growled “are we really going to do this?” The five of them took off without looking back, and Dick is shaking his head in disbelief, his eyes fuzzy with the mirth.

And when they’re sated and comfortable, chairs moved closer, Tim’s ass in Dick’s lap, ankles over Jay’s knees, listening and talking, he finally sighs a little and pulls himself out of their embrace stands up so he can sleight-of-hand slip the boxes from his jacket sleeves.

“So…this may not have been just…a date night,” and his pulse picks up again, for a completely different reason. He’s more on the  _now or never_  train with this one.

Dick and Jay turn in their chairs to face him, still looking amused and content, their eyes fond and warm.

“I…I needed to talk to you away from the Manor and our usual places, somewhere neutral.”

“Timmy?” Dick leans in a little, “are you okay?”

“Yeah,  _yeah_ , I just—”

But, the two small boxes in his palms are flicked before he starts to sink down, taking a knee. With a breath to steady himself, the confusion on their faces when they exchange a glance gives way to dawning realization as his thumbs flip the tops open smoothly before he offers the boxes ( _himself_ ) up.

When the two get a load of what he’s holding, the mating bands glinting off the dim light, Jay’s mouth falls open in obvious blatant disbelief. Dick’s hand moves to his face, a gasp through his fingers as his eyes go wide and move from the ring to Tim’s face and back.

“Richard John Grayson,” he licks his dry lips, “Jason Peter Todd.”

And then they’re both looking at him, still too shocked for him to read into the response accurately (to  _stop_  if this is a  _whole_ lot of  _waitaminute_ ). So, he straightens his spine and plows on, “I…I never thought I would find anyone, let alone  _two_  someones, that I can’t… _won’t_ … live without. Both of you take me for what I am, support me, let me be  _me_. I never…”  _breathe, dumb ass, don’t fuck this_ **up** , “I never thought this would  _happen_ , and now that it has, I…I want it all. And if…if you still want to mate me, to keep me, then take my rings and give me your marks.”

One more breath, another beat of his heart in his throat, “Dick…Jay…will you bond with me?”

He swallows, a sharp arch of fear, of rejection, of them letting him down easy, aches in the pit of his stomach, makes his fingers tremble slightly, but when Jay blinks and his eyes spill over, the horrible uncertainty is gone, filled with something so much  _better_.

Because the two of them  _lunge,_ taking him down to the carpet, and the ensuing cacophony of noise is suck a fucking  _relief_. They take turns at his mouth to kiss him deeply between “yes, Timmy, yes!” and “gonna be so  _good_  t’ ya, baby.” There might even be a few, “gonna make y’  _mine_ , put my mark on yer throat,” or “I can’t  _wait_ , my sweet, perfect Omega.”

He laughs, light-headed when he slides the rings on, leans in to kiss them after it, lets them laugh and snuffle against his throat in anticipation. It’s a strange thing when the instincts, the inner Omega finally stretches, fills out his body without the painful, awkward attempts to force it  _back_. Instead, with these two Alphas lifting him off the floor, holding on to him like he’s all they’ve ever  _wanted_ , Tim can let it take him over, can  _embrace it_  just as tightly.

And later in the night, when the three of them are in the bedroom, bare and panting, hands sighing over skin, and the sounds of ecstasy echoing around them, the Omega is completely safe and secure sandwiched in between his Alphas, a writhing mess, while they prepare for the  _finale_.

“Never going to let you go again,” Dick rasps against the side of his throat, preparing the spot for his claim, “going to make you  _Mine,_ Timmy.”

He can’t even formulate a reply, just grip Dick’s hair  _tighter_  and whimper. “Alpha… _Alpha_.”

Jay is just as deep and dark at the other side, sucking at the spot that’s gonna be  _all_  his. “My pretty ‘Mega,  _mine_. No one’s gonna take ya from me, baby. Yer mine now and fer always.”

His thighs are Jay’s hips tighten.

And when  _it’s time_  and the moment hits the three of them, Tim is reared back against Dick’s chest, screaming as the Alphas rear back to  _bite_. The euphoria of the bond sliding into place, cementing when it was always kind of,  _sort of_ , almost just  _there_  before, ties them together, is the warmest feeling, a perfect sync of body and soul, of the three of them a bonded Triad.

It’s no surprise when they all black out from the utter intensity, clutching each other  _tight_  even slumped over.

(Alfred, however, has a few words to  _say_  on the matter,  _Young. Sirs._  as  _he_  certainly hasn’t been invited to an Engagement Party. When they eventually show up at the Manor again for another round of  _which bad guy are we going to stomp next?_  Dami subtly gives Jason a low-five and actually allows Grayson a bitching-free hug. Bruce pauses for a dark, scary second—

Before he moves in to hug each of them with relief and utter  _gratitude—_ because  _finally_ — and offer his congratulations, but he’s definitely with Alfred on this one. The whole family has suffered through  _several years, Tim_ , of their relationship  _waiting for this moment_  and dammit  _they’re going to have an Engagement Party_. You three are attending.  _Why?_  Because I’m Batman.)

 


	17. Fracture Thing: Future AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A copy of the Daily Planet gives it to him before the minicomputer in his belt. It’s ten years in the future.  
> Well.  
> Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this before the hiatus, and I promised an Anon on Tumblr I would try to get more things there moved here, so ah *gestures*  
> I wrote this because I'm pretty much insane, so why not make Fracture THAT much more crazy with the circular backstory this au will create. So, image a Tim Drake right after the Insurgents Crisis from Fracture. Imagine that guy has been out of the clutches of the White Triad for maybe a few weeks before the invading aliens hit Earth. Maybe a few days after that fight, he just, you know, gets thrown in the Future. A future from Night Sky with a massive Robinpile of Dick, Jason, Dami, and his future self.   
> He takes is about as well as you can imagine.

For anyone living the vigilante life, time  _fuckery_  is just par for the course.

So, really, Red isn’t  _shocked_  to see the softly glowing green that could be the dimensional door for just about  _anything_. It could take him a hundred years in the past, a few multiverse skips in  _woo-woo World_ , hell, it could even plop him down on the second star to the right, straight on until morning.

The force of which the thing throws him into solid  _reality_  with a little more  _force_  than he counted on, slamming the vigilante into brick and mortar before he can counter the force of terrible things, like  _gravity_.

The  _owfuck_  isn’t as bad as it could be, but the eyeful of  _what the fuck_ is more than his brain pan realistically wants to  _handle_  at this juncture.

It’s… _Gotham_.

No mistaking it.

He takes a testing swing high above the street, darting in the shadows, scoping out the very  _new_  and  _improved_  scattered around.

(It almost  _guts him_  when the theater is gone from Crime Alley.  _Because it isn’t there anymore_.)

He doesn’t see any Bats on patrol, keeps a sharp eye out for camera and surveillance just in case O or some other entity might be operating, gives his tech some time to sync up with Wi-Fi so he can maybe get some  _deets_  on which fucking rabbit hole he’s gone down  _this time_.

A copy of the Daily Planet gives it to him before the minicomputer in his belt. It’s ten years  _in the future_.

Well.

Fuck.

He gets a little more from some of the headlines, just some Teen Titan victory over the Fellowship of Evil ( _wow, PC much?_ ). The team picture is a teenage Robin ( _Damian_ ), Beast Boy, Raven, a Superboy he doesn’t even  _recognize_ , and a few more members that aren’t even on his radar.

( _Okay, going back to the Tower is apparently_ out. Not like he could chance being there  _anyway_.)

The realm of possibilities slide around his thoughts, snarl and writhe when he plans the next contingencies. First thing is first: see if he still has any safe houses in the city (but, really, with the way things have been going, you know, since Bruce took up the Batman mantle again, he probably already made his way  _out_ ), and then to start working on some magical return spell so he doesn’t do  _all_  kinds of damage before it’s all said and  _done_.

He opts to check the Penthouse Perch, trying to stay low and  _ghost_ , taking the harder route where possible. The neighborhood is the momentary  _progressive_ , a line of high-end retail shops bistros, and IT firms lining the street where it used to be an all-night bakery, a video rental store, a few mom and pop stands, and a pretty sweet Game Stop (everything in  _life_  he ever  _needed_ ). Now…it’s on the up-and- _up_.

When he’s finally balanced on the side of his building, using a whirlybird to break the lock to the security system, he gets the break he needs. The wiring configuration is wholly  _his_ , a pattern that would probably exist somewhere in his future-brain. After a few minutes of musing over the unmarked switches, knobs, wires, and additional power supply, he disengages two for manual override.

Thus the window opens cleanly and without a sound. He counts it as a win.

Holds his breath and eases inside, calculating where he could put his weight, listening for anything, anyone else using it as a safe house (maybe this is where Babs reverted since the theatre is gone). The main room is fuller than he remembers. A bookshelf in the corner, comfy sectional by a large screen not hidden in the wall. DVDs fill up the TV stand and spill over to baskets on the floor. A light is on in the kitchen over the sink. Mugs, glasses, plates, more than he would use on his own (some epic nerd ones are obviously his and he can hazard a  _guess_  to the “Zombies Do It Better” one—the thought of Jason Todd staying here makes his stomach churn just a  _little_ ). Running shoes, boots, and loafers by the door.  

Silent strafe down the hallway, fingers skimming lightly along the wall, eyes moving to places with the potential to have more security traps. Slowly push the bedroom door open and ease in. No noise from the bathroom, a light on the desk illuminating the room softly.

The bed is made but rumpled, someone sitting down ( _is the current him out there after suiting up? Was the Red Hood going to come back and pull another knife or get_ serious _with a .45?_ ), clothes are lined up in the closet, obviously more than for just him, giving him another startling jolt.

( _It’s…he’s lent the Penthouse out for the Bats because he’s not in Gotham much anymore. It’s a nice safe house with cable, who could blame them?_ )

He open the hidden door in the back—

Black and gray body suits, a few extra black and blue for Nightwing, and…

The  _R_. Robin’s tunic makes him almost take a step back ( _some shit still stings_ ), but he opts to close the hidden door, noting the Red Robin suits are heavier on the armor and Kevlar, a decided lack of cowl, a sleeker design. He almost takes one just in case.

Almost.

But time is ticking down if the Bats are on their way back after patrol, so he leaves the rest, brain already processing the implications, and looks for the hidden entrance to his downstairs garage. As luck would have it, the secret access is still there, and he’s got a handful of Ducatis, a pretty nice Lexus, a shitty beater ( _what happened to the Honda?_ ), and a more reserved car all taking up a majority of the available space.

( _Looking at it now, he realizes how…empty it is in his time_.)

Moving through the silent machines, the lab is still down a short corridor. It’s been reinforced with a heavier sliding door and bulletproof glass, a locking security system, and just  _good planning_ on his part.

First thing first, hack the pad and put the place in  _lockdown_. Second, get to a work station, hook up his wrist computer, and start figuring out the coordinates. Third, gather the materials he’s going to need to build something to get him back and get out in the next few hours before it was time for all good little Bats to go home for the morning.

( _He is going to fervently hope future him totally threw him a bone here and has the schematics already hidden somewhere._ )

The hack is only a slight pain, but with his wrist computer, he’s already got the base set of coordinates for his time, checking the similarities from where he’s at  _now_ , it’s nice to know he hasn’t skipped through universes willy-nilly again, it always gives him metaphysical  _jet lag_.

While the application to determine the sequence he’s going to need runs on one of the back workstations, he starts checking out what hardware he’s got to work with, hunts out a pretty recognizable backpack ( _sorry Tim_ ) to start stuffing full of the things he’s going to need, glad the thing is going to fit nicely under the cape and harness.

Things are running smoothly for the most part.

Well, Murphy’s Law and such.

The analysis is halfway through, maybe another hour or so before he’s got the data he needs to start working on a serious  _code_  issue and reconstruction when the intercom on the far wall crackles to life.

“Tim? Timmy, you here?”

_Shit_. He should have a few  _hours_  left. With some simple commands, he darkens the windows out and makes a fast hack into the surveillance system.

The Red Hood is pacing down the hallway, lights on, talking on his comm while he seems familiar with the room and the  _damn hidden staircase_.  _Fuck._

“—still can’t get ‘im on comms, N. Celly? This ain’t gonna bode  _well_ —”

Is all he can hear from Jason Todd as he vanishes down to the basement, and it’s time to come up with a serious  _plan._  He goes to the lab panel and hits the hazard alarm, lights turning on outside the lab to indicate a possible contamination. Hopefully, when he tells Hood he’s got it under control, they guy will tell him to have a good time and be back on his way to patrol, reassure the rest of them the situation is well in hand.

Emergency lights go off inside the lab, but he shuts down a few of the protocols to keep the equipment up and running.

( _Should have grabbed one of those suits, dumb ass._ )

The pounding on the door makes his heart leap into his throat, makes him palm some pellets, makes him go for a whirlybird without thinking  _twice_.

“Tim! Timmy  _answer me or I swear ta **fuck**_ —”

Another few good blows, but the camera outside shows the Red Hood snarl something in his comm before he goes for the panel himself, ready to just rip out whatever wires he needed to kill the door’s mechanism.

He’s out of options, so Red slaps the intercom  _on_ , “Don’t. The room’s contaminated. I’m putting everything under quarantine.”

Hood look up at the camera, domino without the whiteouts, and Red gets an  _oh shit_  moment when he realizes ( _those eyes are **blue**_ ) he might have miscalculated by coming here in the first place.

“God _dammit_ , Timmy, tell me y’ve gotcha antibiotics in there.”

His mouth drops open for a second because  _how did he…?_

“If y’ get another dose of  _septic shock,_ Big Wing and Demon are gonna keep ya down f’ a  _month_ , you feel me, Baby Bird?”

Scrambling, Red slaps the intercom button again, “it’s…fine. I’m taking care of it. I’ll need about an hour to make sure the room is clear and my tests are clean.”

He watches Hood pat the back pocket of his body suit while going back to the comm, “yeah, yeah. Found ‘im hole up in the lab. Dunno what’s doing yet. Get here.”

_Shit_.

“It’s  _fine_ ,” he stresses wondering who else is going to show up because the lab is the most secure panic room in the building. No way to get through the vents or out through a hidey hole. He’d made sure it could stand a small blast and keep standing. “I don’t want anyone infected if that’s the case. It’ll only take an hour for the tests to—”

And like he thought of something, Hood’s head comes up again and the phone goes down, “Timmy. Why didn’tcha call us or B an’ let  _someone_  know ya got hit with something?”

( _Why would I?_ )

“I needed to get back here fast to avoid anyone else getting sick,” he moves away from the intercom and the sight of Jason Todd (you know, just the guy who  _slit his throat_  once), and goes back to stuffing the parts he’d need in the backpack.

(His hands are shaky with lack of sleep and caffeine. He’s going to need to crash and  _soon_  or his body is going to make that hard decision for him.)

“Sick?” Hood latches on to the word, “ _how sick?_  Tim, come clean wid’ me, how bad are ya?”

“Not as bad as I initially thought,” he bullshits, checking the working system, making sure the lockdown protocol didn’t interrupt the analysis.

_Dammit, still forty minutes to go_.

The next is so quiet he has to take steps back to the door the make sure.

“Timmy. Lemme in.”

“It’s not sa—”

“Think I dunno when yer feedin’ me a  _line_? Givin’ ya one minute ta tell me the  _truth_  ‘fore I’m takin’ the door  _out_ , do you  _feel me_?”

Trapped with no other alternative than to fight the Red Hood. A Red Hood with ten years on him, and probably without the boatload of time-displacement vertigo. Instead, he reroutes power to the lab, clenches his jaw, and catches the sight of Hood’s head tilting down when the lights on the control panel go out, meaning a big ole  _Access Denied_.

“Startin’ ta  _worry me_  now.” But the patience is riding thin, Red can  _hear it_.

“Give me an hour,” he grinds out, not sure why the  _fuck_  Jason Todd would say something like that to  _him_ , but the picture is starting to become just slightly more  _clear_. (At some point they may have had to work together so the  _murder you_  vibe has certainly  _waned_.) “That’s all I’m asking, Hood.”

The snap to Jason’s spine, the abrupt straight-back, almost makes him flinch. He’s passed some imaginary line and he’s got  _nothing_  on what that might be.

But Hood pulls a 360 on him, “gimmie a sample. I’ll run it ta Bruce, let ‘im help ya on whatever ya mighta gotten inta.”

_Wait. What now?_  He makes conscious effort to pick his jaw up from off the ground (because Hood admitting he might need Batman’s help? Hell has in fact frozen over). Still, it’s going to get him the time he needs. Which is the only reason he finally gives in (by the time B pulls anything conclusive, he’ll hopefully be  _outie_ ).

“All right, that might be helpful. Thanks…thanks for looking out,” even though it  _kills him_  to say it.

He scrounges for the tools needed, knows he’s got the make this look  _good_. The splash of his blood in the vacu-seal container is just something else to do while he’s waiting for the numbers to add up.

He sends the sample through, watches Hood take it, staring down at the sterile vial of blood and back up into the camera.

“One hour, Tim, and the door’s gettin’  _opened_ , one way ‘er another, yeah?”

“I hear you.”

He goes back to making rudimentary assembly while he has the needed tools he won’t be able to carry out, doesn’t see Jason Todd pause and stare up into that camera for long, aching seconds before he turns away.

Up the stair to the penthouse, Jay taps his comm again. “Somethin’s  _up_. I can’t get ‘im outta there.”

He can hear the wind sighing while N runs. “Okay. I’m almost done here. An hour tops and I’m on my way.”

Jason hums, strolling to the back of the main floor, getting out the old tools from the Guest Room closet hidey hole. He’s old school about it, using the empty table as a good place to mix Tim’s blood sample with the recent bouts of Scarecrow Toxin ( _nada_ , clean), that putrid shit the Jokers are throwing out now (all good, Baby Bird), and cleaned the set to try one of Pam’s old compounds (‘cause  _that_ would explain the attitude. Their Timmy tryin’ ta be all Mister Proper instead a’ just  _tellin’_ ‘im he got hit by sex pollen and needed some  _care_. They woulda been  _all_  over ‘im in a hot  _minute_ ).

“You going to call in the big guns?”

Jason pauses at that, “he’s gotta full plate t’night, Big Wing.”

The choked laugh over the line tells him just what N thinks of  _that_.

“Fine, fine. I’ll talk at chu soon.”

“Let me know if it gets worse.”

“Mmhm.” Jay taps the comm again, makes the call while holding up a vial, watching the color turn for the final results.

“Yes,” And the voice of their Robin soothes over the line, the purr of the engine, Dami’s  _ride_  is a low white noise.

And his tone goes a little softer, a burr over the line. “Had a busy night with the Titans, yeah?”

“Hello, Jason,” and even with  _something_  chewing at his inner Detective, the smile cuts over his face when their boy sounds like he’s in one piece. “Has it been a difficult night,  _Miftah_?”

“Could say that. We got us a  _sitch_  on the home front, Sweets.”

“Injuries?” Robin asks quickly while the liquid in the vials in front of him take their sweet damn  _time_.

“N’s gonna be bruised as fuck n’ Red’s in lockdown. Said he mighta picked up something, dunno what.”

“…I had hoped we were over being  _difficult_  with one another.”

“We are.” Hood defends lightly, “but he’s being a mite more  _cagy_  n’ paranoid than normal. Howz ‘bout ya come home n’ try ta call our bird outta the nest?”

And no matter what kinda excuses he gives, Jay can  _hear_  the engine leap, Baby Bat. Ain’t foolin’  _no one_.

“I’m less than an hour away. I will try to hurry.”

“‘Preciate it, Sweets. Sometimes takes a  _village_ , yeah?”

The low laugh makes the Red Hood crack a grin, his chest warming up with one of his boys almost home.

“I suspected something when I was unable to access him on comms or by cell.”

“Not sure what happened ta his tech, but he’s locked up in the lab  _tight_. Re-routed power so’s I couldn’t get in…” Jason hesitates a second, eyes going up to the window, “got me worried. Somethin’ ain’t right.”

The other end is quiet for long moments, the road noise and slowly ticking final tests taking attention. Jason holds up the last test, watching the color turn back to a normal red.

“I’m getting a report now. Titan’s Tower picked up a surge in Mid-Town Gotham. What was he into tonight?” And, yeah, Robin still sounds somewhat  _perturbed_. When the Titan’s alarm went off, Timmy sent Rob off to lead the team, said he needed to be in the city tonight. Had a meeting he couldn’t  _miss_  (but did his usual duck and divert before they could really get a  _name_ ).

“Got out’a the Perch ‘fore I could ask. He’s workin’ a good one, so’s I figured he had some informer waiting. Most a’ the night, I was down at Dixon, so I got nothin’ on Mid-Town.”

“Beast Boy is still running an analysis. It would be easier to ask our significant other,  _however_  it seems I am not within  _vicinity_  since his tech is apparently down.”

“S’all right. I know our boy’s  _buttons_.”

“You should,” Robin grouses low over the line, “you  _are_  one of them,  _Miftah_.”

“Aw, I  _know_  ya meant that as a  _compliment_.”

“You are one of  _mine_  as well, Jason,” Robin admits softly over the line, and it makes a nice, sly smile slide across the Red Hood’s face.

“Ain’t my  _fault_ , Sweets. If ya wasn’t so  _pretty_  when ya moan fer me, I’d be a little more able ta  _resist_.”

They share a laugh while Robin drives and Hood finishes up his tests.

“I shall be home soon. Once Beast Boy finishes the analysis, you will get the results. Perhaps that may shed some light on the situation.”

“Gotcha, be careful, Baby Bat.”

“You as well,  _Miftah_.”

Jason only feels marginally better after all that, and picks up the set to clean the test tubes once the results are in.

_Nada_.

Timmy’s blood is clean.

With a thoughtful hum, Jason does one final test with narrow eyes, watching the results.

**

Time is ticking down, and he’s literally shaking in his suit because he really needs to get going before Hood realizes time is almost  _up_  and comes looking for him. Besides, the supplies aren’t going to be sufficient to get a working device able to traverse  _time_ , so he needs to eventually get out of here anyway.

He’s doing the last touches he can while trapped in the lab, finally had to strip off the gauntlets when the fine work needed a more delicate  _touch_. So he is  _right_  in the middle of trying to fit a motherboard the size of his thumbnail in the right spot with a soldering gun in already shaky hands—

When the hard, jarring  _slam_  on the sealed door makes him jump almost  _the fuck_  out of his  _skin_.

(It’s probably not going to take much anyway. Time fuckery to contend with and such.)

“You little  _asshole_ ,” over the intercom (and there, that  _does_  actually sound familiar), “lemme the  **FUCK**  in.”

His fingers twitch unconsciously, want to go to his throat, to stop the fucking bleeding before—

Red has to shake himself out, to make himself cross the room to reply, “look, Hood, I already  _told you_ , I need another—”

“White count is outta this fucking  _world_ , Tim. God _dammit_ , alla us had a  _talk_  ‘bout this. S’not  _okay_  anymore, do you mother _fucking_  feel me here?”

Blinking owlishly, he actually has no  _clue_  what the hell his white count has to do with  _anything_  going on here.

His finger is still on the button when he stutters out, “I…I don’t know what—”

“None’a  the sensors in yer suit triggered, y’ little shit. Wanna explain that ta me? Howz ‘bout why yer comm ‘n phone ain’t working?”

Sensors. In his suit. Sensors people like  _Jason Fucking Todd_  have access to? What. In. The. Great.  _Fuck_  is  _this_  about? Is he so far  _off_ of the “trusted vigilante” list that they have to keep some crazy tabs on him or some shit?

(Probably all Dami. Wants to make sure the  _trash_  stays  _out_  of Gotham, right?)

“I—” and he can’t  _believe_  he’s saying this, “I’m sorry. I dumped everything in decontamination. My belt, suit, everything, just to be on the safe side.”

(But it still gives him nightmares some nights, wakes him up thinking his throat has been cut and he has to stop the bleeding, has to call Nightwing for help—but he  _can’t_  because he isn’t  _that Robin_ anymore. Even if he calls, no one is going to come).

The long-suffering sigh on the other end transfers over the intercom and Red looks up at the camera again, sees Jason Todd rubbing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, his expression tight with  _something_. And Red hopes staring for a few minutes gives him some kind of clue on what he should be saying right now to make Hood just fucking  _leave_  (when really, it  _should_  be anything: “Hi, don’t shoot/stab/maim me.” “Nice weather we’re having.” “Bad guys with bazookas will ruin your day”), but his brain pan, sadly, comes up with  _nothing_. He’s a good enough detective to figure out the red rage of  _kill the Replacement_  has slacked off, and apparently they even  _talk_ once and awhile (you know, about shit like sensors in his  _suit_  and whatnot), but he’s going nothing else really to go on.

“Y’ promised ta stop hackin’ the sensors. Ya  _promised_  me n’ Dickie. Dami don’t put that on ya, I know, but cha gotta stop this shit, Tim. Yer makin’ me old before my damn time.”

The whole convo as of right now is making his whole equilibrium shift in ways that make him decidedly  _uncomfortable_ —

And he has no idea  _why_.

(There is no way they’re keeping you tagged, running through your cases, making sure you can still do  _the job_. But what other reason is there for putting  _sensors_  in his  _suit_? Nothing is adding up to be positive. It’s very  _the opposite_ , actually.)

Swallowing down bitter, biting anger and old  _hurts_ , he makes himself breathe through his nose softly, “once I get these last results, I’ll have enough answers to explain, okay?”

Which, while  _true_ , is probably not the “answer” Hood is looking for at the moment.  It’s fine. Future him will be back before any of them even realize something is  _off_.

“I gotta rebreather in  _hand_ , Timmers. Ya could lemme in and explain it ta me  _now_.” And yes, Jason is holding one in front of the camera, a little  _lookit what I got here_.

“Another fifteen minutes and I’m out of here.” ( _Five, but really, who’s counting?_ ) “I’ll bring up the test results and we’ll go over it.” Hoping,  _hoping_  he’s bullshitting generically enough for Hood to recognize things like  _logic_.

Still, the Red Hood seems reluctant to move, staring up into the camera with narrow eyes and a frown on his bare face (oddly enough, he thinks it might be the first time he’s ever seen Jason Todd’s bare face outside of pictures. They’ve always met in masks before now. The realization makes his stomach clench uncomfortably, combined with the knowledge he’s apparently  _not_  on the Titan’s roster anymore. There’s something terrible behind all this, and whatever his future holds is a temptation dangling right in front of him).

“I’ma tell ya what’s gonna happen here, Timmy,” and Hood’s voice is low, deep, making Red release the intercom button and step back with a full-body shudder (because he is missing something very fucking  _important_  here), “in fifteen, yer gonna come up n’  _talk_  at me. Gonna get a nice cup’a coffee n’ eat whatever I put down in fronta ya. I don’t wanna hear any  _bitchin’_  er  _complainin’_. Do you  _feel_  me, Baby Bird?”

_What the fuck did he call me?_

Blinking, his brain saves him, making it possible to press the intercom button again. “ _I get it_. Distracting me isn’t going to make it take any  _easier_  or  _faster_.”

Jason’s eyes narrow further on the camera, his expression twisting into something more familiar, even without the domino, but still, he turns away and walks out of the frame, giving the displaced Red Robin a second to really  _breathe_.

So.

Plan B.

The backpack goes under his cape with everything he can snatch up, gloves and gauntlets back on, cowl it up and life is  _good_.

It’s less than five when he’s pulling the flash drive and wiping the application completely. The door slides open seamlessly for him to make sure there’s no Red Hood lingering around the short hallway while the lab locks back behind him. Soundless steps, fingertips barely skimming over the walls, disappearing in the shadows, becoming  _one_  with the darkness.

He’s convinced he’s alone when the underground opens up to the garage and no Red Hood in sight.

_Nailed it_.

He’s going to walk one of these bikes out through the hidden entrance and be on his way to track down a few more safe houses that probably would be viable even this far into the future. He is going to crack this fucking  _code_  and create the right commands he needs to program. He needs a quiet space to try building a time machine ( _how is still up for debate, but he definitely has ideas_ ), and to  _not_  see any more of this  _messed-up_  future.

(At least he’s probably  _not_  a gun-toting Batman, so at least there’s a win somewhere.)

And he’s even got keys  _in hand_ , balanced the thing, almost ready to raise the kick-stand—

When a set of headlights come through the hidden entrance, blocking the way.

“Oh  _fuck_ ,” is low when he’s caught right in the beams.

Over the purring engine, he hears a car door open while his brain  _gets with the program._  The plan is forming, and he eases the bike back, hand already moving off the handlebars.

“Tim?”

Cultured with an unmistakable accent.

_Damian_.

He’s moving in the next  _breath_ , leaping back to hit the control panel on the wall, closing the inner doors right in front of the car’s headlights before the youngest (the technicality is too much to process right now) vigilante can get around the car door. The yell before the door comes down passes right over his head.

He’s moving and calculating the odds, thinking he can get to a window in the Perch fast enough to evade Hood and circumvent Robin (if he still  _is_ ), to get a line and take the fuck  _off_  to get lost in Gotham. Once he’s out of sight, probably out of mind anyway.

(Because  _that_  would actually make him feel  _better_  right about now.)

So he makes sure to hit the top stair mid-stride to keep momentum, springing across the living room to the already half-opened window, not even looking over at the open kitchen to see if the Red Hood is sharpening his knife collection or something.

With adrenaline overriding sleep dep, he forces his strides to lengthen, carrying him across the room fast, a blur of movement, the cape a dark shadow against the gentle glow of the overhead lights.

It takes a second too long to shove the window up far enough to get through, throwing his upper body up and out while his knees are drawing up to get both feet on the sill to make a halfway decent jump into the night.

—the hand on his calf interrupts the plan with a decidedly  _oh shit_ kind of drop in his stomach happening when fingers tighten down and  _pull_.

He traps the surprised noise behind his teeth, not bothering to try fighting the grip since he’s got nothing but window and wrought iron to grip. Instead, he uses the extra seconds to slip the necessaries out of his utility belt.

“Tim! What the hell is going on?!”

Even ten years in the future, Dick is always going to be  _Dick_  (and the sound of his voice fucking  _guts_  Red deep down where the old hurts still  _bleed_  over and over…well, he got the  _right Robin_  in the end, didn’t he?), so Red Robin give  _no shits_  about using the acrobat’s chest to kick off and get himself out of the hold, flipping around to disguise the toss of the pellets to the floor by Dick’s feet.

The smoke pellet and light bomb are usually  _super effective_  against bad guys, but since, you know,  _Bats_ , it doesn’t give him as long as he’d hoped. Just enough to turn on his heel and face the secondary window—

That is already being opened by a taller, broader, more muscular Robin to add a second opponent to the fray.

Not that he’s anything but  _fine_  with these odds.

The third opponent is, again, Murphy’s Law smacking him in contingencies.

_Fuck_.

“I geddit now,” the Red Hood slowly sets the fresh cup of coffee down on the counter, takes a few easy strides to join the dynamic duo surrounding him. “Why the sensors in y’ suit didn’t go  _off_ , Timmy. Feeling nostalgic or some shit?”

He snarls at them, hands raised in offense, ready to deliver some nerve strikes while his brain furiously works out the next few steps.

_Ten years of training and fighting beyond where they are now. Three against one, and I’ve already got some_ owfuck _that might just get a little bad if I don’t get some antibiotics in my system soon. Shit. This? Not looking good_.

But.

He’s the  _planner_ , and his gauntlets spit out whirlybirds in one hand like the thing is with him, trying to be one step ahead.

“ _Habibi_ ,” Damian ( _fuck that, he’s Robin remember? Yeah, how could you **forget**?_ ) raises both gloved hands out, an ‘I surrender’ motion, “do not  _run_.”

Since there is  _no way in hell_  Damian is talking to him, it only takes a moment, a breath, and he  _moves_.

It’s like water and air, how he flows from one move to the next, using the whirlybirds to distract when he strikes, steers clear of Damian’s longer reach, makes sure he isn’t getting anywhere near Dick’s powerful legs (that spinning back-kick fucking  _hurts_ ), and manages to cut through the straps holding the Red Hood’s holsters on his hips.

He takes a hit to the back where the cuts and remnants of torture still burn and throb at the  _best_  of times, the force knocking him on the kitchen table where the three of them are immediately on him.

“What the  _hell_  was he hit with?” Is Dick voice, effectively laying over his legs to pin his lower body down.

“Dunno, none a’ the tests came back positive,” Jason grunts, trapping a gloved hand so the gauntlets can’t be activated.

“We should get him to the Cave. Father’s equipment—” Dami traps the other hand and is already reaching to deactivate the cowl, to shove it off while their Timothy struggles against them.

The three vigilantes  _freeze_.

“Holy  _shit_ , baby, y’ gotch yerself aged  _down_ ,” Hood leans down a little to stare at him, gaping, and Red has an absurd moment to be a little more up-close-and-personal with the Red Hood than he would ever be  _c_ omfortable with.

“Oh,” is Damian’s only response, blinking down from behind the domino, “this is… disconcerting.”

The two vigilantes stupidly allow their grips to go just lax enough that he can quickly switch the grip. Robin barely makes a sound as he’s thrown into one of his significant others, missing the sight of Tim’s hips arching hard enough to throw Dick to the side so he can get out from under them all.

With his damn face bare, the fucking secret is  _out_.

( _It’s fine. They’ll be happy to get rid of him, time traveler or not_.)

He’s on his feet again, ready for round two, backing up against the counter to have something to brace on if the sitch calls for it. If they come at him, he’s got enough space to leap up and over, can make it to the open windows as long as his body doesn’t fail him beforehand.

“I’m  _not_  aged down,” he growls, pissed when his gauntlet doesn’t spit anymore whirlybirds or pellets in his palm (he carefully  _not_  going to think about how the Red Hood  _knew_  the right place to turn the things off, he’s not going to  _think_  about how  _obvious_  it is that they don’t trust him in this future space since they  _know_  where the suit’s security triggers are).

“Okay,” Dick is looking at him carefully, not advancing, “sooooo, multiverse Timmy?”

He inhales shallow, keeping himself ready to move when the time comes, “Time travel.” He hates to admit it, hates to be bare-faced in front of the three vigilantes, hates knowing he might not be able to take all three of them down without  _cheating_.

“Oh shit,” is Jason Todd’s stupefied reaction. “ _Seriously?_  How far  _back_ , Timmers?”

“I just need peace and  _quiet_  long enough to reverse engineer some tech and I am the  _fuck_  out of here,” the low growl is more  _pissed off_ than Red Robin, something darker than the Robin he  _used_  to be before the shit storm that is  _his life_  took over. “So,  _move_.”

“Why did you not go to the Cave? Or call the Titans?” Damian pulls the domino away, eyes sweeping over him from head to foot. “We would have  _aided_  you.”

“Why the hell would I—?” He starts to counter, but shuts himself up, muscles already tensing for the jump.

“What time are you from?” Dick asks another way, breaking the obvious tension, trying to keep Tim ( _this Tim, not necessarily_ their _Tim_ ) distracted enough that he stops trying to bolt.

“What does it matter?” He snaps back, every instinct screaming  _now, now, **now**_.

“I can hazard a guess,” Damian responds quietly in a weirdly…soft tone. “Tim…ah,  _Drake_ , please, we have no ill intentions. You must believe this.”

_Wow, let him just think about that one_.

“Then back off. All I need is a safe house for a few days, and I’ll be on a  _one way trip_  back to my own time.”

“You should have come to us first. We would have helped you,” Dick is giving the  _big brother disapproves_ look.

Good thing he’s immune to that shit. You know, since his cape was taken and all.

“I don’t need help.” Which is mostly true. “I need tools and materials.”

But Jason Todd leans over the kitchen table, eyes narrowing. Red expects some of the same old shit he’s heard a hundred times,  _Replacement, Pretender, Useless, Worthless_.  _Stupid Little Shit_.

It’s not what he  _gets_.

“I recognize  _that_  look.”

His body is ready when Jason moves around the table toward him, striding with long legs and a whole lot of  _determination_. Red’s arm slides back, ready to let the whirlybird fly, but Jason is  _fast_ , already shoving his forearm through Red’s automatic defenses—

To press firmly against his forehead.

Wait,  _what?_  Jason’s other arm is too far back for an attack, and his face closer again, closer than even the whole  _be my Robin_  during the Battle for the Cowl. He still has the whirlybird, still has the other hand on the bo at his back, but the  _not killing him_  move makes him abruptly freeze, blink, makes his brows crinkle with confusion.

Jay looking down on this younger, worn n’ weary version of their Tim, tisks softly with his eyes blue and clear as glass, “runnin’ a fever n’ ya know it, don’tcha Timmy?” A glance over his shoulder gives Red enough of a breath to  _get it together_  and sidestep a millimeter closer to Damian where he’s got few, few options ( _still enough to make it out—he has a plan_ ).

Jason Todd looks from Dick to Dami, “Looks like we got us a sick bird, boys.”

“ _So?”_  Red spits out, calves tightening for the eventual leap up on the counter, “what the fuck does  _that_ —”

But something apparently happened when Jay said those words, something that hits the other two right in the mother-hen instincts.

“ _Fever_?” Damian pushes Jason slightly aside, glove and gauntlet already gone, gripping Red’s wrist and laying the back of his hand against the side of his throat where the Red Robin tunic leaves off (his instinctual jerk away is countered with the warning squeeze to his wrist that completely doesn’t blow a gasket in his brain—really), “When did you last take antibiotics? Sleep? Eat?”

It’s such a progression of  _what now?_  That he is literally struck speechless for about sixty seconds, brain derailing because this is fucking  _Dami?_

Which is completely why he’s in shock and doesn’t bat Dick’s hand away when it grips his jaw to pull his gaze over.

And who  _knows_  how this version of Dick Grayson has the code to crack through his haze of  _get the shit out of here_ :

“There’s fresh coffee by the way. I made it strong enough to kill small animals, just how you like it.”

Inescapably, he pulls away from the two as his eyes go to the counter where indeed the pot is sputtering its last and the  _smell_  hits him in just the right place.

(Sleep dep is a  _hell_  of a thing.)

“Coffee,” the breath leaves his lungs because  _yes, the answer is always yes_.

Damian eases back soundless in heavier boots than in Red’s time, opens a cabinet and pulls down a terrible and fantastic nerd mug depicting a workflow to determine whether it’s a unicorn or just a pony. The physics are spectacular and he has a very sinking suspicion he made it himself. The taller, broader Robin works fast and in the open, stirring in the right amounts of sugar and cream that are oddly exactly how he likes it.

Pointedly, the mug is set gently down at a place ( _his normal place_ ) at the kitchen table and the chair pulled subtly out. Being easy and obvious, moving slower than maybe necessary, future Dick and future Jay ease back from him, take seats, giving him some space to make a tremulous decision.

(But  _dammit_.  _Coffee_.)

Still, even if he’s… _better_  with the Bats now, it’s a fucked part of his system that still flinches  _back_.

“I…shouldn’t learn anything,” is a quiet but steady admission, “it’s not wise to stay. I got a taste of my future once and I am really okay not knowing this time around.” Who the fuck knows  _why_  that just spills out of him while staring at that mug, the dishes, the shoes, the security deactivated on his gauntlets, trying and yet not to put all the pieces together ( _once he knows, he can’t **unknow**_.)

“We shall be…discreet,” Dami replies, the same accent, the features cut and more defined, more Bruce and less chubby cheeks. “As we are all familiar with traversing time and space, we are aware you will need to be kept…away from the mainstream media. At the very least have coffee if you must leave. However, I am more than certain all your needs can be met here in your Perch where you may not stumble on events you need not know about quite yet.”

His eyes go from Dami’s calm-cool-and-collected to the mug on the table and back. Robin has both hands on the shining surface, in plain view, his bare face sincere, but his eyes are green instead of that intense blue that is all Bruce (it gives him a jolt, a terrible something flickering in the back of his mind, a reason why Damian is even  _in his Perch_ , but that is something he can’t,  _shouldn’t_  know).

“I have no idea what I’m even walking into,” but his foot slides closer to the tantalizing smell wafting from that mug because no amount of training can circumvent his need for caffeine. “You could all be killer robots or clones or shape-shifting aliens. I’m at a complete disadvantage here.”

“Aw, Timmers,” and Jay just shakes his head at the skittish Red Robin, the one what’s taken a fucking  _beating_  on all sides, acting just like a rabid dog ready to snap  _back_. It’s the Tim from his nightmares, back when the white scar at that throat had been something to be  _proud of_  ( _almost gotchu, Pretender. Next time, be on yer fucking **game**_ ). It’s so far from where they are  _now_.

“You’re a detective,” Dick shrugs, his own mug between gloved hands, “no better way to figure it out until you get evidence. Might as well have coffee while you’re observing.”

The second foot is already closer anyway, and he gives in with tightness in his chest, but  _really_ , coffee is not going to be the hill he dies on.

(Still, he eases down carefully, eyes moving from one to the other at all times. Just because you’re paranoid  _doesn’t_  mean there’s a terrible future secret waiting to take out yet  _another_  semi-vital organ.)

“I could learn way too much here. Hacking into the mainframe is pretty easy considering, well, I’m the one that built it,” he picks up the mug in both gloved hands, not able to feel the heat, yet the warm down is his belly already makes him feel like he can  _move_  again.

The smirk across Jason Todd’s face is something he’s so  _not used_  to seeing that he pauses with the mug still on his lower lip, “Come off it, Timmers. Yer gonna be a  _good_  little Bat n’ leave it alone, yeah? We already getcha, ba— _ooph._ ”

The abrupt elbow in his side shuts Jason up, but Dick doesn’t even look over, “the safe houses don’t have the equipment you’ll find here or in the Cave, Timmy.” Dick smiles at him faintly ( _and it makes him want to jump right the fuck out the window because he **remembers** back when he used to get those smiles, the ones that mean ‘I’ll never abandon you.’ Well, shit apparently changes, doesn’t it, Dick?_), as he starts taking the gloves and gauntlets off for the night. “We can call in some of the JL for some old portal redesigns if you need it. We have resources from…well, whatever time you come from, so we can avoid exposure to new tech.”

Well, that could make life a whole lot easier couldn’t it?

( _But staying here might be a little too much, a little too painful for the moment, not when he walked out of the Cave after stopping Ra’s and becoming the damn CEO of WE, after he lied to Dick about being brothers because he **knows**  the real story, should have figured that shit out a looong time ago_.)

“B’s got plenty a’ room ta work. Sure he’s gotta spot f’ ya if ya’d have yer druthers.” Jason has already picked the Zombie mug out of the dish rack ( _totally called it_ ) and busies himself pouring. “S’ides, Cave’s isolated from th’ city ta keep ya outta any fuckery what might go down.”

“It’s not—” he starts automatically,  _my place_.  _Sometimes, you can’t go **back**_.

(Except when maybe… _maybe_  you  _have_.)

_Fuck._

“—necessary. I’ve got this. I’m getting pretty familiar with multi-versing at this juncture.” And even to  _him_ , it sounds tired. “I’ll stay isolated in the lab until I can get everything together.”

“First, you need sleep,” and Dick is not necessarily wagging a finger at him, but he knows that  _look_  when he can finally bring his eyes up from the dark coffee in his mug. “Making that kind of equipment means you need to sleep at  _least_  eight hours, Tim.”

His mouth drops open to snark back something probably biting and sarcastic (because he doesn’t  _need_  this, had stopped needing anything from them a long time ago), but Dick walks right over him without a hitch.

“ _Nope_. Sorry. If you’re going to do complex engineering, you need,” and the asshole holds up fingers to tick off, “antibiotics, food, and sleep. Once your fever is down, then you can be in the lab all you like.”

He feels his head tilt slightly in confusion because this…this is not what he expected.

“Agreed,” Damian is already moving to the medicine cabinet, pulling down a bottle clearly labeled with his own handwriting. Jason follows his example and pulls out a few things from the fridge he’d been planning to make for eats.

“This isn’t—”  _the you I already know_  because his head is turning, going between the three of them like he’s watching  _tennis_  or some shit because  _really_.

He should be going now.

“Uh-hu,” now Dick is wagging a finger because he’d seen the desperate glance toward the temptation of the window, “I’m showing you where clothes are and you’re getting a shower. Jason is going to cook something delicious, and  _we_  are going to watch old Netflix reruns until you pass out. You can enjoy sciencing in the morning.”

He sure he doesn’t blink from where he’s staring at Dick with what might not be a completely neutral expression ( _the last time he’d spoken to his former best friend, it had been ‘what do you need’ and moving the fuck **on**. This…this isn’t  **them**  anymore_) _._

Damian gives  _no shits_  about leaning his ass against the table uncharacteristically  _close_. He grabs a wrist to pull the hand up before the muscle could tighten, could  _fight_ , and lays the bottle in his palm before releasing him.

The older Robin doesn’t move, just  _waits_  with what could be this  _thing_  Red never knew he had. You know,  _patience_.

And even though he really,  _really_  shouldn’t, he pops the cap open to get a load of the horse pills in the bottle (which  _do_  look just like the ones in his time, but again  _ten years_ , this could cause him to hemorrhage from every _where_. Who really  _knew?_ ).

He stares at the contents for a few seconds too long.

“Ah, perhaps…” Dami pointedly looks over at Dick and then Jay, “Tim…during your search for Father, did something…happen? The reason you have these?”

It’s a careful way of asking whether or not he got a little impromptu surgery sponsored by the League of Assassins.

(It still kind of creeps him out to think Ra’s might have actually  _kept_  a sample of his spleen for some odd ball experiments.)

Which, yes. Yes, he did. How the fuck  _Damian_  and apparently Dick and Jay know this is certainly something he doesn’t want to think about. He’s a  _detective_ , the eventual questions would start from there. You know, like  _what did you do when you found out?_  The reason for sensors in his suit are suddenly becoming clear.

“It’s  _fine_ ,” he snarls out, fighting the urge to throw the damn pills and make his healing back strain that much  _harder_ , “I still function with my damn  _team_ ,” fuck,  _Robin’s team_  now, “and I still pull my own  _weight_ —”

Dick perks up just slightly, like something  _sparks_ , and his eyes soften just a little more, “hey, no,  _no_ , that is  _not_ —”

Dami, interrupts with a confused, “of course you do,  _Hab_ …ahem,  _Drake._ ”

“I saw…an article about the last fight,” pops out of his mouth because it is really  _not_  conducive to say too much.

“Hmm. Yes, it was more troubling than necessary without _you_. I do not lead the Titans. I will risk giving you more information than you may require, but I am your  _second_ , Wonder Girl your third, Beast Man as your Fourth—”

That sure as hell trips him up,  _all of it_. “Beast  _Man?_ ”

(Oh God, Gar.  _Really?_ )

And because of  _that_ , it makes him okay looking up at Dami, makes him take a little pause because—

( _Why the fuck would Damian agree to be his **second**? No, no, no, brain bleach because he does _ not _need answers to those questions_.)

But it shakes him a little further when he realizes the guy finally figured out how to  _smile_ (it’s just the fact Damian is smiling…you know,  _at him_ ).

“It is a joke, Tim. Your curious sense of humor has rubbed off on me through the years.”

A gloved hand pats his wrist while he’s still a little  _struck_  (he has never heard Damian say his name like that  _ever_. You know, with the lack of  _I’d like to stab you. Anytime now_ ).

He moves away while Jason lays his holsters carefully on a chair, pushes it in and away, “I’ma make ya some chicken noodle, Timmers, n’ a turkey panini since yer gonna do whatcha need ta. Gotta be on yer game, yeah?”

The urge to make a comment about things like  _murder sandwiches_  is only overridden by his love of paninis.

In the end, he takes the pill ( _it’s going to turn out to be the red one, just his luck_ ) because all of them are staring at him expectantly (he can throw it up once he’s in the bathroom) and doesn’t fight Dick tugging him out of his seat by a wrist, leading him down the completely familiar hallway ten years in the future, keeping his eyes averted so if something is  _there_ , something he shouldn’t see, shouldn’t  _know_  (more evidence to stack up and compare), it gets lost in the peripheral.

A bolt of panic shoots through him when it looks like Dick is going to lead him into his bedroom and start doing… _something_ , picking out clothes or maybe just staying to make sure he doesn’t bolt. Red stops abruptly, halting Dick’s progress, making the older vigilante stop fast and give him an inquisitive look over one shoulder.

“I’ve got it from here, thanks.” He deadpans, sliding past his former partner and through the doorway, “I don’t need help finding the shower in my own Perch.”

The door gets stopped on Dick’s palm, those electric blue eyes taking him in, making him look away because ( _he can’t have this, this isn’t for **him**_ ) whatever might be going on with his future self the other vigilantes is really something he doesn’t want his brain to focus on, a mystery he doesn’t ( _shouldn’t_ ) give enough of a shit about to unravel.

( _Riff raff, remember, Replacement?_ )

“Tim,” is soft and easy, Dick using real strength to push the door open wider.

“Fine,” he snarls out, turning away from whatever is churning in those eyes, “I’ll stay here. Now would you just fucking  _leave_ —”

“You aren’t in a good place,” Dick soothes over, ignoring the snarl, “I remember a time when you were beaten up by everything happening, a time when you didn’t have a safety net. A lot of it…a lot of it I missed and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t  _there_  for you, I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“ _Stop_ , what the fuck are you even  _saying?_ ” Because this is so  _far_ from what he could have  _expected_.

“—help you. I may not be there for you in your time, but, Tim,” and the hard grip to his arms, stopping him from stepping back and slamming the fucking door right in Dick Grayson’s damn  _face_ , is inescapable unless he really wants to  _fight_.

“Just, I’m here right now, okay? That’s all I want you to know.  _We’re_ here, believe it or not.”

( _Just like his last night in Gotham. Nothing like the last person you thought was on your side thinking you’re crazy_. _That’s a painful reevaluation of your last several years_.)

“It doesn’t  _fucking matter_ ,” Red finally turns to those blue eyes, gritting his teeth because  _that_  really pisses him right the hell  _off_ , “none of this  _matters_. I’m going to fix this time fuck-up and forget this… _anomaly_  ever happened. The  _you_  of my time still isn’t going to give a shit, the Red Hood is still going to try and slit my throat for good  _this time_ , and Damian is still going to go for goddamned my zip lines whenever I have the audacity to be, you know,  _on the planet_. None of that is going to  _change_ , so- so this? Whatever in the hell this  _is?_  Doesn’t mean  _fuck_  for where I am now. Just, do me a solid and leave me the  _fuck_ to myself for a minute.”

And it’s crazy how seeing Dick’s expression crumble before he closes the door makes him feel so much fucking  _better_  than he has since he got off this shitty time stop.

So he doesn’t focus  _at all_  on how shit like, “I’m sorry I wasn’t  _there_ for you,” hits down  _deep_.

Nor does he focus on the hodgepodge this is, apparently, a communal t-shirt drawer, plenty of work-out shorts for the Olympic gymnastics team, and a drawer of… _things_  that make his face go so red, so  _fast_ , he’s afraid he might  _actually_  just pass out.

(Some…some of that makes a lot of sense, though.  _Dammit. Brain bleach_.)

He finds several suits in the closet, nice three pieces and too many stupidly drab ties. The bathroom has been remodeled, bigger shower and vanity. More storage space of the Wonder Woman toothbrush holder and a stack of clean towels.

It’s achingly… _domestic_.

Red strips the suit off piece at a time, keeping his gear in the room with him (just, you know,  _in case_ ), lets the bigger showerhead run until the water is hot.

At this stage in the game, he’s a pro at pulling off the few bandages still on his back from the healing injuries during his little horrific vacay on a ship, but his people had done a much better job after a little run-in with some dick bag aliens and this little weapon called  _the mind trap_.

It had been a busy couple of months. Just, you know, a little  _time travel_  to round off his year.

Because that’s how he rolls—

(after he’s fallen a little in the unfamiliar shower, in a fucked-up kind of reality, sitting on his ass while water hits him from above, keeping his hands in his hair so he stops just  _shaking_ )

—with whatever the universe throws his way.

He’s going to keep fucking  _moving_.

A towel around his waist and wet hair on the back of his neck making him shudder ( _don’t think about it_ ), he’s 90% on which toothbrush is his and feels like he’s somewhat  _human_.

**

A muscle in Dick’s jaw ticks when the door is locked from the inside and his other two boyfriends are leaning against the wall a few feet away, both with their own disturbed reactions to the rigmarole from their much younger significant other.

Jay is the one to push off the wall first, raise a hand the back of Dick’s neck and work out the tense muscles there. His free hand is held out to the slouching Robin tiredly rubbing his bridge of his nose while Jay just turns Dick’s face and leans their foreheads together. It becomes the three of them when Dami finally takes the offered hand, steps in with them, pulls them both against him so they may comfort one another.

“Fuck this sucks,” Jay’s hands tighten down a little without thinking twice (because they come so damn  _far_  from the little asshole in their bedroom right now, and it’s fucking  _agony_ to get how it  _used_  to be).

“It  _will_  get better,” Dami promises against Dick’s jugular, “we…we will eventually come to terms. This will not last forever, Dick, do not forget that.”

The oldest merely sighs and tightens his arms around his partners, already feeling the loss of the fourth body in their ranks.

“Damn right,” Jay soothes, tilting both his boys’ faces up to lay one on Dick’s mouth and then Dami’s, “our boy’s gonna be  _back_ , jus’ snarky and self-fucking-sacrificin’ the way we goddamn well like ‘im. Until  _then_ , s’ up ta us ta help Timmers make a goddamned  _time_ machine.”

Dami sighs and finally pulls away, still in  _Robin_  with his inner vigilante working. “Speaking of. We need to locate  _our_  Red Robin.”

“Throw my hand down on the ole’ switcheroo. Our Timmy took a trip back an’ this one came ta  _us_.”

“He probably knew,” Dick sighs, “he said he had something he couldn’t miss.”

“There were also power spikes in Gotham. The correlation is too much for coincidence.” The second time Damian massages the bridge of his nose, Dick and Jason take a little more  _notice_.

Dick has no problem pulling the youngest in by the waist for some  _octopus hold engaged_ , taking in the deep heave of Dami’s heavy chest against his forearms.

“Mmhm,” palm to Robin’s throat, tilting those eyes up, “first? Getcha a shower n’ ease back, Baby Bat. We’ll take care of the prelims, you feel me?”

And if his thumb move over that lower lip and a slow, sly smile stretches his mouth wide and white right outside their bedroom (that is currently  _occupied_ ) while Dick gets all cuddly, it only makes the weary Robin grip Jason’s wrist and breathe out a laugh.

“Enough of your insatiable sexual deviancy, Jason. We have a case to solve,” but Dami moves his mouth to the tender part of Jason’s wrists, eyes rolling up before he lets go. “The luxury of a shower, however, is worth the time.” A pat to Dick’s forearm and the hold goes slack with one more squeeze.

“Masks and suits aren’t going to put him anymore at ease anyway,” Dick agrees absently, palming Dami’s mid-back to give him a push toward the Guest Room, the old instincts there to care for his  _Robin_. “But  _still_. I think I might walk around on the roof for a while, just in case our time traveler wants to make a break for the windows again.” He’s silly about rubbing his nose against the back of Dami’s neck in a spot that is utterly  _weak_. The affronted noise is enough to get him moving before he starts a fight (an aroused but unfulfilled Robin usually leads to the  _other_  adrenaline-inducing activity), and is moving down the hall, adding a layer to the plan.

Jay is on the food train. Anything to make their bird ready for beddy-bye is a full belly and some mind-numbing science crap. “Good plan. We let a young Red out in Gotham, shit’s gonna get  _real_.”

“Agreed,” Dami sighs, “I will access the Tower’s mainframe and piece together what we know of the power surge. Perhaps that will give us an indication as to what happened to our Tim.” Dami takes the cape off his shoulders and deactivate the security in the Robin suit. With a wave over one shoulder, he moves to their Guest Room for the promised shower and extra clothes (since  _his_  are trapped in their bedroom with Tim).

Jay is throwing broth together while Dick re-dominos up and leaps out the window while night is barely riding the sky. He hums to himself, checking the broth once and a while, chopping some nice greens f’ Dami.

“Hey darlin’,” he calls in the empty kitchen.

“ _How can I help you, Jay?_ ” The voice from the ceiling, Timmy’s own version of their in-home Siri.

“Call the boss f’ me, yeah?”

“ _Dialing B’s Den of Iniquity._ ”

Yeah, he’s smiling at that shit. ‘Cause little darlin’  _knows_.

“Please tell me it’s not an alien invasion.” Bruce’s voice is husky and slurred over the line, sleep-husky and rough.

“Sorry, B,” and Jason pauses, huffs out a hard sigh while the paninis get their toast on and he’s worried as  _fuck_  about where his Tim might have ended up at (not to mention the guilt every time this Tim flinches for a weapon—back during the  _not good_  times).

“Jay? What is it? Are you all right?” The World’s Greatest Detective is immediately alert, using every stealth trick he’s ever  _learned_  to slide out of bed and across his bedroom without waking the nice young reporter still asleep in his bed.

Well, one that might be just a little… _super_.

In a whirl of motion, the bed is made, soft lights turned on, two mugs and a carafe full of coffee ready at the two-seater by his large windows. In the same fast display, Bruce is ceremonious robed and put right at the table in front of a place setting, a breakfast Danish already on his plate and the hot coffee amazingly  _perfect_.

Despite the tone of Jason’s voice, Bruce is rolling his lips to try staving off a grin at Clark still sleepy-eyes and yawning across from him, arching a dark brow and sipping out of his own mug. A few hours ago, they were at the very same places playing chess. It had taken Clark less than a second to lower his glasses down to the tip of his nose to give Bruce—

_The smolder_  —

Before they were very much in his bed for the night.

Clark knows immediately where his mind is and pointedly licks the coffee off his lips with absolutely shameless intent.

The whole thing is just  _long enough_  for Jason to tell him they might have  _a situation_.

“Time travelling Timmy, B. Y’know, s’ Wednesday in Gotham and shit.”

He doesn’t snort into his coffee. Clark, however, will vehemently disagree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the hiatus, I'll probably get to the Future Tim shoved in the past and possibly get the second part out of Past Tim with the Bats, so, you know, thanks for reading :D


	18. Future au II!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has a moment.
> 
> A  _long_ moment.
> 
> The vent right by the dresser goes downstairs, bypasses the kitchen and living room completely so he wouldn’t even  _have to_ have to—
> 
> The knock on the window by the bed answers that question before he can even squat down to get the vent cover off. Dick is bending over to look at him through the glass like he knows exactly where Tim’s brain is. The masked vigilante holds up one finger, wags it side-to-side in an  _ah-ah-ah_ , then points to the closed door.
> 
> A muscle in Red’s jaw jumps, his eyes narrow on the vigilante.
> 
> Dick’s mouth quirks up to one side in a  _try me_ smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a few Anon Asks on Tumblr reminding me that I've been terribly remiss in moving things over here >.< I'm terrible about starting aus and just picking them up or letting them fall when the muse is there, so forgive me.

Dammit. He can see your  _boots_ , Dick.

Seriously.

**

Talking Bruce down out of riding to the Perch,  _tout-fucking-sweet_ takes an  _intense_  amount of effort. It goes about as well as you’d expect.

From his place on the ledge outside the window, Dick is watching to make sure nothing opens and no hint of past-Tim slips by while he adds his two cents when needed. He takes a stroll down once and a while, checking for a mop of hair peeking over the curtain rod.

“I disagree.” Is definitely echoing, so B’s moved down to the Cave, “the more we have on our side to keep him in one location—”

“I do not believe  _more_  is better in this instance, Father,” Dami counters tiredly, swaying slightly on his feet. He feels somewhat  _better_  after a fast shower, but the weight of the last two nights is starting to wear on Baby Bat.

“Lookit, Bruce. When we  _say_  he ain’t in a good place, that’s not any kind of exaggeratin’,” Jason fills in.

“My point exactly, Jay, even  _more_  of a reason—“

“Think about it. If we give ‘im better toys n’ intel, then he’s gonna stay in the Perch with moderate bitching. So’s we need  _you_  ta work on gettin’ something that ain’t gonna give Timmers more about the future than he needs ta  _know_ , yeah?”

The obvious pause is B starting to reason through it all.

“Besides, once we ‘re sure Timmy’s  _run_  factor has decreased, you’ll have everything we need ready,” Dick placates on the way back to the window, waving a  _voila_  hand as he crouches down again, arms akimbo on the sill.

It takes Bruce a minute to think through his usual amount of contingencies. He already has access to all the security camera in the Perch (you know, Ra’s and such) on the back-up system he’s accessing via Tim’s laptop,  _conveniently open and ready_ , at his workstation in the Cave, which is probably the  _only_  reason B is any kind of okay without how this is going to  _go_  and not already knocking on their front door.

( _Because of course their Tim **knew**. He’s already here as living _ proof. _)_

Apparently stuck in the BatCave, he feels slightly better pacing between Tim’s workstation and the big computer booting up after everything hit. Clark is forlornly floating by the big screen, laptop on his knees to log into the JLA archive listing.

“The only  _problem_  is I’m going to need time to fix the BatComputer before I can get you anything good. The power surge last night killed my system, and I didn’t get any alerts until a few minutes ago when the usual scans didn’t run on time. The back-up for the main body of BI and Security are running through O, but still, the sooner I’m back online, the better.” At least he can calm down  _slightly_  because if they’re Tim knew he’d be thrown into time, he would already have  _plans_  on how to be stuck in the past. Nothing immediately comes to mind, so it’s possible the time stream hasn’t caught up yet to cause any noteable differences (but, like Barry had told him once years ago, every foray into time has a consequence).

The Red Robin laptop has the permissions he needs to access some of the older data concerning their own universe and how the time streams can be manipulated without breaking anything ( _Barry_ ). He can get to exactly what folders and files he needs, but it doesn’t escape B’s notice the permissions are keeping him off one virtual server, the one usually housing certain  _ghost drives_. So, any plans concerning said time travel tech is going to be annoyingly  _absent_

(Well played, Tim. You want this to take some  _time_  in the past, do you?)

In mid-town, it’s Damian swearing hotly. (Tim and Father together would  _never_  allow the BatComputer to be vulnerable from  _any_ external sources _—_ )

Which is very large indicator for  _sabotage_  and hints how obviously their Tim  _knew_  about the event and apparently made contingencies for it.

The three Bats exchange a knowing look.

“We still have plenty of resources even if the BatComputer is down,” B placates, and diverts the path slightly to rise up on his bare toes and look over Clark’s shoulder at the current listing the reporter is scrolling through. “But this is going to take me  _hours_  once I start, so it’ll have to wait until we have something useful to get Tim back to his correct time.”

Another exchange because the BatComputer being down only means B is  _vulnerable_  without the usual scans and alarms. No one is comfortable with that possibility (not taking into account the  _absurd_ amount of people that know where it is  _anyway_ ). Dick sighs from his spot because one of them is going to have to go down and lend a hand. He’s thinking they should rock-paper-scissors for it.

“J’onn is in the WatchTower if we need to get into the JL’s locked vaults,” Is Clark from the background, “three of us have to be there to open it, and who knows? We might have something in the archive that won’t give Tim too many  _ideas_  about the future.”

“True. All right then you three, I need a time frame,” and B still sounds a little less like  _the night_ , meaning he’s concerned (because, you know,  _BatDad_ ). “Get me his year, and I’ll have something in a few hours, regardless.”

“There, that’s going to be more helpful than throwing things at him faster than he can process,” Dick is already making  _plans_  before he stands back up on the ledge, makes his way back down to the bathroom again so he can make sure Tim hasn’t used the vents to his  _advantage_.

Jay leans over the table, closer to the system, stretching out the tight muscles in his back. “‘Sides, we ain’t been able ta pin our Timmy down yet, B. No comm, phone, the  _works_. Mighta gone ta the past, but we need some confirmation, you feel me?”

“Titans Tower also picked up preliminary data on the surge, which is my theory for the record.” Dami checks his phone again, but no updates from Garfield or Rachel (they are, however,  _invested_  in seeing their time-traveler. They may or may  _not_  take his firm  _no_ ).

“Good, we can use the intel.” B takes a second to lay his forehead on the nape of Clark’s neck, close his eyes, get a  _breath_.

 _Dammit, Tim. Trying to keep the temptation at a minimum_. Because the World’s Greatest Detective could save the family, all of his boys, so much  _pain_  just with a few careful words—

 _Maybe he had known from the start_.

Juggling his significant other and his laptop, Clark isn’t even a  _little_ surprised how easy Bruce makes it to lay a palm down and work some of the tension out of tight tendons. He’s scanning everything from confiscated possessed roller skates to some magical cat statue Constantine swears is legit. He is going to talk with their tech people about more… _organized_  filtering because categories like  _we’re not sure what this does_  shouldn’t be used in their  _archives_.

When Bruce raises his head enough to press his mouth gently over Clark’s pulse, it makes a  _shiver_  roll up his spine, but B is already off to start jumping into Tim’s system while long lines of code run on the big screen.

“Any footage could tell us if Tim got switched with his younger counterpart, so let me know when you’ve got something. In the meantime, send me the month and year. I’ll find something Tim can use.” He takes a second and looks over at the speakerphone, his sigh soft and fond. “I’m here if you need anything. All of you know that, right?”

“I am fairly certain we do, Father, as it is immensely  _convenient_  to have Batman on speed-dial. A few hours at best is all we are asking. Allow us time to get him acclimated.”

“I  _understand_ , Son. No hovering.”  _Yet_.

It makes Jason bark out a laugh and go stir his soup. It’s a natural thing to slide a chair out with his ankle on the way, get a hand hold of Baby Bat’s worn t-shirt, and slide his tired ass down where he can lay himself on the table and doze if need be.

“No lecturing either, B,” is called from over a shoulder, “we’ll catch ya up in a few hours.”

“Eat something. Try to sleep in shifts if you can,” is completely serious and very  _not asking_. “Love you, boys.”

“We love you as well, Father.”

“Ditto, B.”

The dial tone sounds for less than a second and Jason sighs, running a hand down his face, his muscles  _tight_  with everything, with Tim, a Tim they can’t touch enough, a Tim they can’t help put back together, a Tim they can’t try to  _save_.

And it fucking  _guts him_.

Dami does the only thing he can. He slides silently to his feet, moves swift and silent to wrap his arms around Jason’s hips to lay his forehead between the tight muscles of those shoulders, gives them both a minute to breathe.

“Go and shower,” Dami tells him softly. “No masks, no suits. We make Tim comfortable as we are able.”

He puts the spoon down and covers the lightly simmering soup, turns the fire off. All mundane until he turns abruptly, reaches out an arm, and pulls Dami hard against him, holds on  _tight_. And the current Robin merely allows it, allows his boyfriend to do what he must, what will make him feel in control when they are essentially—

 _Powerless_.

When he sees Dick peek back in, brows drawn in concern, Dami’s eyes slide to Jason and back to Dick. One eyebrow arches high, giving Dick all he needs to know in just one move.

Dami gets a half-grin and a nod in reply, a little  _message received_.

While they could  _all_  do with a distraction in light of the visitor in their Perch, Damian merely sends Jason off to the shower, watches Dick strafe down the side of their building to meet him in the guest bathroom. He does so with complete confidence they will take care of each other, regain their strength, then return to help him deal with this Tim Drake, and he  _knows_  with an easy, small smile while he stirs the soup again and checks his data, washes out mugs and blatantly moves a photo of the four of them from the front of the refrigerator to the side, that when he is able to finally  _collapse_ , his tethers will keep him from falling too far.

**

He makes himself throw up the pill he’d taken in front of the versions of Robin, N, and Hood before he climbs out of the shower. He chooses a dark towel to dry off in case he gets things like, you know,  _blood_  on them or anything. Luckily, the cabinets are still stocked with supplies so he counts on his future self taking care of his own injuries.

( _Natch_ )

Putting gauze pads back on the sore, cracked skin is just another type of contortion, getting enough covered to be on the train to  _just fine_.

( _The sensors in his suits Jason mentioned bother the **fuck**  out of him._)

He gives  _his_  Red Robin tunic a longing look, but picks up everything to go back downstairs, use the facilities to fix his busted utility belt and throw the specialty cloth in a washing machine.

He has a moment.

A  _long_  moment.

The vent right by the dresser goes downstairs, bypasses the kitchen and living room completely so he wouldn’t even  _have to_ —

The knock on the window by the bed answers that question before he can even squat down to get the vent cover off. Dick is bending over to look at him through the glass like he knows exactly where Tim’s brain is. The masked vigilante holds up one finger, wags it side-to-side in an  _ah-ah-ah_ , then points to the closed door.

A muscle in Red’s jaw jumps, his eyes narrow on the vigilante.

Dick’s mouth quirks up to one side in a  _try me_  smirk.

It’s so familiar, a vestige from those good times sparring, solving cases, watching stupid movie, saving each other’s  _asses_ , and all of the in-between (the guy who was once his  _friend_ , his  _mentor_ , someone who would fucking  _catch him_ ). It’s Dick that chose Damian as his Robin over him. An old ache that still hits him at odd moments when the idea of going  _back_  is a muscle memory of better fucking  _times_. Things that aren’t  _there_  anymore.

The utility belt hanging from one hand gives a sharp noise, startling him out of his revere, making him get the fuck  _with it_. He turns away from Dick and the vent, looking at the compartment he’d just busted and the inconsequential slice in his palm from clenching down too hard, pissed at himself and the situation he  _really_  doesn’t want any part of.

(At least he’s not a gun-toting Batman, right? Always a bright side.)

He doesn’t turn at the second, more rapid knock, doesn’t see concern drawing Dick’s brows in, just goes to the damn door with bare feet and clothes slightly too big for his frame, totally not focusing on how the Bats have taken something that’s ( _used to be? Time fuckery and such_ ) his,  _his Perch_ , and commandeered it for their own purposes ( _no problem, didn’t need that cape anyway, right?_ ).

Nope.

All good, nothing to see here.

When he opens the door, the boots outside the window walk off.

Damian is at the table in a pair of dark shorts and a Henley, hair still wet; he’s intent on the tablet he’s holding while Jason is nowhere to be seen.

The youngest Robin looks up immediately, those green eyes and stark  _Bruce_  characteristics in his older face still a jarring thing settling in, but Tim’s eyes look away before Damian’s expression gets softer, his eyes missing nothing.

“ _Bel_ — ah,  _Drake_ ,” the youngest is on his feet, pushing the chair out.

“It’s fine,” he holds up the good hand, already on his way to the door downstairs, “I’ve got to get some maintenance done and start looking for a way back. Don’t let me—”  _keep you_.

But it’s a crazy thing when Damian is just  _right there_  so fast, his eyes wide, and a hand so much bigger than Red remembers wrapped around his bicep, stopping him before he gets halfway across the room.

“But a moment, Tim—“

Is completely lost because the instincts don’t fail him, still read  _watch your ass_  when his suit and sundries drop, his body moving to grip the wrist and prep for a nerve-strike of  _epic proportions_.

( _Because he and Dami? Not good. Even if this one doesn’t seem eager to watch him fall to his death or stab him with pointy things, he still has to go with what he_ knows.)

He’s only stopped by the fact Damian just  _goes_  with it, lets him trap the arm with an expression so full of calm and something like  _trust_ , Tim’s arm halts mid-strike and he literally can’t go through with it.

“I am sorry,” Damian immediately placates, down on his knees with an arm twisted in Red’s grip, “I should not have surprised you, and I am  _sorry_ , Tim. Please forgive me in this.”

_Fucking **what now?**_

He drops Damian’s wrist like it fucking  _burns_ , steps back with wide eyes, and a surprising urge to throw up ( _again_ ). The small shot of adrenaline hits his system without an outlet, making his hands shake just a little—

( _just enough for Dami to notice_ )

—because everyone has limitations, and he? Is no exception to that rule.

But he’ll be  _damned_  if he lets the  _demon_  of all people know that.

( _Maybe that whole ‘eight hours of sleep before dabbling in time travel’ would be a good idea._ )

“It’s…” he glances away, teeth bared at himself, “it’s my bad. I shouldn’t have jumped you.”

Damian doesn’t move as Red gathers up the pieces of his suit again, but those eyes miss nothing.

“I’m going down—”

“You are injured,” smoothly interrupting, Damian holds up his wrist to show the smear of blood left on his forearm and rises to his feet slowly to give Timothy every indication of his movements, “something easily fixed, Tim—ah,  _Drake_.”

“It’s fine,” he starts out, his too-long hair covering his eyes. “I mean it’s just a scratch—”

Hands gently take the balled-up uniform out of his grip, “and yet, your immune system is still compromised and overworked. It would be appropriate to make certain it has no other obstacles affecting your health. I am certain you would rather be at peak than fighting off infection.”

It’s not snarky and demeaning like he expects, but an easy observation, one that makes him finally look over at the bigger, broader Robin and something else that makes his chest a little  _tight_ and his skin warm. It’s something that might set off a few receptors in his brain because the  _danger_  warnings might go down. Or not. It’s 50/50 really.

Easy, like he’s being absurdly careful, Damian takes his wrist in a light grip, and holds up the hand for inspection.

( _If he even knew what was going on under the t-shirt, he’d know_ why _the immunities are fucked._ )

“This will take only a moment. Indulge me?”

And with Damian asking, being really  _nice_  by, you know, not trying to kill him or anything, Red can’t find it in him to say  _get fucked_. Instead, he breathes slowly and assesses, trying to keep the irritation down to a minimum. His silent is taken as concession.

He sits down at the table gingerly, ready to jump at the next second, watching Damian move around the kitchen with a disturbing familiarity. His eyes flicker over to the tablet still moving with updating numbers, but forces his eyes away, keeping back from anything he might learn that could possibly collapse the universe or something.

He stares down at the table instead, hand palm-up while the big first aid kit he keeps under the sink in his own time seems to have grown into a tackle box full of fast and furious fix-it.

He doesn’t watch the antiseptic wipe swiping over his heartline or the gauze pad against the small slice, reaches for tape only to have Damian get to it first, those eyes intent on the barely noticeable injury.

“This isn’t necessary, you know,” he tries hesitantly, the calm concern on Damian’s face making him slightly… _uncomfortable_.

The current Robin hums back at him, unconcerned.

And that’s where they’re at when noise down the hall is the return of Jason and Dick from the Guest Room, the latter with a towel over his damp hair, the two of them talking quietly before they reach their  _visitor_.

“Fuck that was good,” Jason gives a watered-down version of his usual sly smirk to the older vigilante, “blew my  _mind_ , Baby Boy.”

“You’re not the only one with a dirty mouth, Jay Bird,” Dick smirks back from under the towel, his bare upper body moving smoothly while he dries his hair, shirt over one shoulder. Getting in the guest bathroom window and naked had been something more primal than Dick wants to admit since  _suprise sex_  really isn’t par for the course when things like  _time/space visitors_ are on their proverbial doorstep, but Dick had felt so fucking  _raw_  when he got a load of that old version of Tim, something he missed during his time getting back to his Nightwing days, and Jay seemed to  _understand_  the need for intimacy, not even questioning it while the water washed over them both.

And the fact Dami asked without asking, knew both of them needed the distraction to stay ahead of the emotions, to try keeping some kind of  _distance_  is just another quirk they need to keep Tim from noticing.

(Because they’ve got a broken bird in their house, one they can’t fucking  _fix_  since that would potentially change the future. It’s helplessness and the drive to want do  _something_  that makes all the frustration need to be… _handled_  before they can face him again. In some ways, it helps them to put back on the neutral faces, to keep them from reaching out  _too far_.)

“Gotta keep provin’ it, yeah? Got me right where ya wanted, Dickie.”

“I know your weaknesses, and a good blow job is just one of the many.” Dick comes back smartly, but it’s lacking some of his usual panache.

“Don’tcha evah let Mask know that shit. Don’t wanna have baddies lining up ta suck me off.” Jason tries to keep up the banter, even when his battered hands work at his sides, flexing, clenching, keeping himself from  _reaching_.

A slight laugh, still a little off his game, “You know, that might be a better weapon in your extensive arsenal of crime fighting, Little Wing.”

“That’s fuckin’  _sick_  shit, Dick.”

“Wow, really? With a mouth like yours, I’m going to take that as an achievement.”

The two pause at the scene across the room. Even though they’d been preparing for it,  _knew_  what was waiting for them to face without a cowl and multiple  _options_ , it still tugs at them, this reminder of where they all used to be.

(Giving Dami a few extra minutes to ease Timmy down had been a good idea after all.)

A younger, more worn Tim Drake with hand extended sits on the edge of his seat, a cold example of  _fight or flight_. His suit is lying out on the back of a kitchen chair with the usual sundries (and a compartment in the utility belt is busted, gleaming in the overhead light), but the two of them stop because they get a real look under the mask.

He’s not filling out the clothes of his older self, thinner and worn, the bones in his face sharp and cutting, framed by too-long hair. The tight flex of his muscles give an idea of how tense he holds himself, a trap ready to spring.

Dick breathes in slowly through his nose, a hand worming around to pat Jay on the wrist.

The two move again just as Tim’s head snaps over, eyes already narrowed, ready for the next fight to come his way.

(The comparison is unconscious, thinking about  _their_  Tim and how he has laugh lines, how his muscles go pliant in their hands, how the calculating look melts away when it’s time to let go of the mask.)

He’s half-risen out of his chair on instinct, sinking back down when he realizes he’s not going to have to defend himself in the immediate future. ( _Maybe._ )

Damian finishes up and closes the kit. He might squeeze Tim’s fingers unconsciously before he releases the hand completely.

“Feel better, Timmy?” Dick asks cheerfully, dropping his towel on top the washing machine as they make themselves at home in the kitchen.

Red notices it all, his mind filling in how comfortable they are here as Jason pointedly grins at him and walks around the table to the food he has ready and warming so he doesn’t walk behind the skittish former Robin.

“Fine,” he remarks while Damian moves to put the first aid kit back. “Thanks for letting me use this as a temporary nest.” A glance down at his wrist computer and he’s still got—

Fucking  _nothing_.

Dammit. The coordinates aren’t plotting correctly, and without  _that_ little factor, he’s pretty well fucked. The amount of re-coding and configuring the computer for the future is going to be  _hours_ ’ worth of work and fuck he’s just… _tired_.

But most times, there’s no rest for the weary. “I should get back to it. Time isn’t going to open up and just, you know,  _let_  me go back. There’s still a lot I have to do.”

He doesn’t need to say,  _the less time here the better_ , but well, that should be pretty obvious at this juncture.

Jason surprises him by sliding a warm plate right under his nose, letting the panini take up his vision, and his stomach,  _the traitor_ , rolls with hunger.

“Ain’t gonna matter if ya take a minute n’ eat something, you feel me?”

Dick slides into his seat across the table, giving the illusion of space while not really giving any, “besides, you have to get some sleep first, remember?” And apparently Dick isn’t going to let that go of  _that_  any time soon. “If you want to finally tell me what time you’re from, B and Clark are going to hit the JL archives while you’re napping and try to find  _something_  about the device that brought you here. Schematics would make it a lot easier on you, right, Timmy?”

He blinks at the plate in front of his nose, his gaze automatically following it down to where Jason puts it on the table for him. His mouth waters a little and he really has  _no idea_  how long it’s been since he’s eaten anything ( _So…maybe they have a point_ ).

Hesitantly, he looks up at the future Dick’s softly smiling face and haltingly gives the date in his own time, shoulders drawn up tight because it had been such a long fucking  _year_.

Dick pauses, and the mental calculations are pretty obvious. What Red doesn’t expect, however, is Damian’s head to perk up or Jason to noticeably pause with a bowl of incredible smelling soup ready to put in front of him, too.

“Oh,” Dick’s voice is only a puff of air.

His head tilts quizzically because  _what?_  (It’s not like they would know the whole story. He hadn’t even told Kon and Bart all of it, fuck he’d never  _do_  that to them, never put that on  _anyone_. Cassie got less than an hour span of time, and it did a  _number_  on her. Besides, it’s fine, really. It’s. Fucking. Fine. His fuck-up started it all, his mess, his  _fault_ because he’d thought he was so  _smart_. Thought he had them when it was really the other way around…)

Jason swallows hard, eyes fluttering closed for just a second when he gets the  _year_  ( _Christ Timmy, Jesus H. **Christ**_ ). Damian’s face falls in neutral lines, calm, cool, and collected.

“The Insurgent Crisis, right?” is all Dick has to say, drawing his eyes (well, he  _was_  Batman at one time, so he’d probably get some fucking  _memos_  about pain-in-the-ass alien invaders). “Tim, how long… how long has it been since you and the Titans came out of that fight?”

And  _no_. No he doesn’t want to throw this down, doesn’t want them to know  _why_  he’s starting to feel like a heaping pile of  _sick sucks_. Let him eat this tasty-looking ( _yes, he can fucking admit it even if Jason could have poisoned the fuck out of it_ ) food and go the fuck downstairs where he doesn’t have to stare at their faces.

“Everyone hates alien dick bags,” he comes back lightly even though the bruises on his sides, the scars to his fucking  _brain_  from that whole debacle still make him want to  _scream_  just a  _little_.

“S’at why yer feverin’?” Jason makes it a question because even though his mind is slightly still hazy going back that far and about some of the shit going down back then, he can remember Di talking ‘bout the aftermath and how fucked it was for alla ‘em, just trying ta keep standin’. ‘Course, his Timmy had talked about it through the years, only once and a while when he was pushing the edges of his endurance.  The set to this Timmy’s jaw, the twitch of his fingers, all of it like a roadmap, giving him more deets than Baby Bird probably wants them to have.

( _Fine line yer walking, Timmers. The gun-totin’ Bats makes a helluva lot more_ sense,  _yeah?_ )

Keeping it calm, Jay finally puts the bowl down, makes himself keep moving to feed his other boys.

“It’s been a few days,” Tim admits grudgingly. “It’s…fucked-up timing, that’s all. I  _handled_  it—”

“We know you did,  _Hab_ —Tim,” Damian’s hand moves out of Tim’s sight, grips the back of Jason’s thigh when he puts plates down in front of him. “In time…you do tell us some details of that fight, so do not feel you must hold back. You may share whatever details you would like.”

“Excuse me, I  _what now?_ ” And the horror, the utter fuckery that  _is_  the Mind Trap makes his hands clench with the memory, with the damage done to the Titans, with the possibility they might have to face those fuckers  _again_  in some unknown time period. “Do they hit Earth  _again_?”

(He shouldn’t have even  _asked_  because he really shouldn’t get details of his future. That’s a bad time-travelling vigilante,  _bad_. Still, the  _please, please, no_  is forefront in his brain pan.)

“That ain’t why,” Jason counters softly, letting his sweetheart do what he needed. “Timmers, we ain’t… _good_  in yer time. We getcha, but it does get  _better_ , you feel me?  _We_  get better. So’s it was just the right time when ya finally did lay it out.”

He can suck in a breath, but just  _barely_ , and the world tilts just slightly, just a enough for him to see something else has been building here, the evidence in almost everything he notices pointing him to a completely different headspace in how he should be dealing with the future Batclan.

He’ll try to wrap his stunned brain around the entirety of the situation when the panic in his chest calms it the fuck  _down_.

The next words out of Dick’s mouth, however, aren’t going to let  _that_ happen anytime soon.

“You weren’t even healed up from the fight before that,” is Dick’s half-exasperation.  “You had a bad few months moving from—”

Shit,  _shit_.

They knew about the Triad.

His stomach rolls with nausea strong enough to trigger his gag reflex, makes him shove back in his chair with a hand over his mouth.

( _The ‘fight before that,’ just a little vacay off the coast of Peru with some terrible bad guys that tortured him for his tech.)_

And the three future Bats have an abrupt, sickening  _ah-ha_  moment in the memory of their Tim’s voice when he admitted he hadn’t taken  _time_  to really heal much before mind-controlling invaders thought Earth looked like it was  _on point_.

Words like  _compromised_  and  _post-traumatic stress_  were a huge part of that.

Or, well,  _this_ apparently.

Red pauses because the food in his stomach rolls uncomfortably and he takes his own moment to close his eyes try to fucking  _breathe_ , half-meditate,  _anything_  to keep him from jumping into another remix from the part of his brain that has a technicolor  _rewind_.

( _They knew. They knew and he fucking **told**  them about what happened on that ship._)

Dick abruptly leans over the table, snapping his fingers close to Red’s face, making those eyes blink, the body jerk, and attention  _focus_.

“Stay right here with us, Tim,” because Dick remembers the flashbacks, remembers it with crystal clarity, and by the time he’d been back far enough into Tim’s  _life_ , the third Robin had been going through them for almost a year by  _himself_.  “Focus on my voice. You’re in Gotham City, USA. It’s Wednesday morning. It’s ten  _years_ away from all of that.”

“Baby Bird,” is low and subtle, almost hypnotic, and his eyes slide over to Jason standing between Dami and Dick still with both hands flat on the table, “s’all right. I fucking  _promise_ , s’all right.” Slowly, one of the hands lifts, turns, reaches out.

It’s  _insane_  enough that he  _stares_  down at that offered hand, eyes going back to Dick’s earnest gaze, when he looks further at Damian who is holding both palms up just slightly in the universal  _not dangerous, nothing to see here._

Instead, he shifts mental gears, tries to pull out the second most effective weapon in his arsenal,  _deflection_.

“I don’t even know why would I  _tell_  you that shit. I…I  _handled_  it. It’s  _done_.”

The sad smile on Dick’s face tells him  _more_  than he realistically can believe at this juncture (and  _dammit_ , he used to be so good lying to Batman).

“Just like Jay said, Timmy. Eventually… _eventually_ , we do everything we can to get you  _back_.”

He blinks noncomprehendingly, gripping the seat of his chair in tight enough for his knuckles to go white.

“It,” Dami eases in, not moving but subtly sliding the water glass closer, “it was a…  _process_ , you understand. However, Richard and Jason do not lie.” And it’s a smile for him again, one that has it’s own tinges of old hurts and struggles, one that makes Damian Wayne more  _human_  than the kid that desperately wanted him  _gone_. “The four of us, the  _Robins_. We have come to be family, Tim. We are… _closer_  now.”

And like he can’t help himself, his eyes go to Jason Todd ( _how he knew, how they all **knew**_ ).

“It ain’t easy ta find anyone what can understand how we  _live,_ Timmers _._ Was only a matter of  _time_  ‘til we stopped tryin’ ta kill the one what could have our backs, you feel me?” Jason shrugs a shoulder casually, looking at Dick and Baby Bat before he comes back to Tim, “wouldn’t trade  _none_  a’ it. Bet dime ‘gainst a dozen, the  _you_  that likes being a pain in the fucking  _ass_  would say the same shit.”

His brain blinks off and on, all the evidence sliding into place.

Communal drawers, familiarity with his systems, being able to override the lab, checking on the future him, sensors in the suit because  _they knew he was abducted off the street_ , Hood gets he fucking loves paninis with the crusts cut off, all of it supports what the three are telling him.

At some point, he must have made his way back into Gotham, back into the nest of crazy crime fighters. He works with them ( _they have access in his database, have log ins, have pieces of him he usually_ hides), maybe even deals with their various and sundry  _issues_ because it’s all too obvious how they’ve  _earned_  a place through his security and protocols, how they’ve carved out places in his  _life_.

This time,  _this time_ , when Jason Todd lays a gentle hand over his clenched fist on the table, for the first time since he’s  _known_  the guy—

Tim Drake doesn’t  _flinch_.

**

With hands a little steadier than before, shoving shit like  _trauma_  and  _immediate escape plans_  to the back of his brain pan, Tim picks up the sandwich and takes a trusting bite.

 _Fuck, it’s awesome_.

The future Bats are right there with him, probably riding the dredges of their own patrols and crime fighting for the night, giving an uneasy silence the background for the meal while everything just… _processes_.

(The soup is also awesome, and he’s mentally filing away the fact Jason Todd can cook without it tasting like Bruce’s lame attempt at sandwiches. Thank-you, Alfred, for teaching at least  _one_ Robin how not to poison himself.)

He starts in hesitantly around a mouthful of  _fucking delicious_ , “I’m not…exactly sure what device brought me here. It could have been a few different things.”

Dick’s attention is slightly sharp, the oldest palming a sleek cell phone that looks  _miles_  ahead of the antiquated piece of crap iPhone Tim is used to seeing. He types out one handed while eating,

“Can you start from the beginning, Tim? Try to give me whatever you remember, any detail could help narrow down the possibilities.”

“I had some left-over Insurgent systems in the Tower, running analysis on them,” he admits, taking another bite so he doesn’t give away too much. “I think something might have reacted badly to the scans, triggered… I don’t know,  _something_ , and whoosh. Here I am.”

Dick looks up from his phone, shaking Tim just slightly when it’s  _undivided attention_ , “that’s a good place to start. Bruce is in the middle of a tech refresh,”  _stretching the truth, but Tim doesn’t need to know that_ , “and he needs help, even if he won’t ask for it.”

All of them, even Tim, roll their eyes at the Dark Knight’s  _antics_.

“So I’m going to the Cave for a few hours while you get some sleep. While I’m there, we’ll start looking at the inventory and old records. We’ll find you what you need, Timmy.”

Tim looks back down at his food, jaw working slowly as he chews, shifting in his chair because he’s not the  _intel_  guy or the extra soldier here, and he can’t  _jump the fuck in_  and have some answers waiting. It’s such a strange thing to just be  _sitting_. He needs things to occupy his brain. “The scans were probably running when the portal opened up, so any results would be good.”

Damian likewise takes out his cell phone, taps a few things easily, “I will give Garfield and Rachel the time frame as well. Perhaps they may be able to find the correct configurations.”

He almost opens his mouth to tell them anything about the tech is probably on his ghost drive, but saves that little bit of information for when he’s got a few minutes alone to try hacking into it himself. Instead, he stuffs his mouth full and lets the detectives work the case around him. He doesn’t realize his shoulders are sagging, eyes falling half-mast, his body running down with a few minutes of chill time.

“Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout it, Timmers. ‘Tween alla us, we’ll getcha what cha need,” Jason waves his spoon, talking around the bite of sandwich.

It’s so casual and careless, something that might have fallen out of Jason Todd’s  _mouth_  a hundred times, something that jars him right down to the  _bone_. And Tim stutters on it for a second, lets it sink in instead of deflecting it. “…I…appreciate the help, thanks.”

And something,  _something_  in the way Dami’s eyes get soft when he smiles again, when Dick reaches out, reaches  _over_  and squeezes his hand tightly for longer than just a second before drawing away, in the way Jason seemed to  _know_  his quirks, all of it, fucking  _all of it_ —

Makes him utterly fucking  _terrified_.

Because once he was on his own, after the R was taken, he figured all those years of bleeding and broken, of fighting the good fight as a Bat, of being welcome in the Cave, in the Manor, in their  _lives_ , of being  _one of them_ —

Was just…over.

It was a searing, painful thing, a burn in a place nothing else could  _touch_ , a stab so sharp and biting it left him weak even when he  _had to keep moving_.

Even when his friends died around him, even when he was the only one  _left fucking standing to fight_ —

Losing his place as Robin broke something integral, something he could never  _fix_. A wound that couldn’t be stitched or bandages, something the bled like a motherfucker until he had to fight just to fucking  _breathe_  sometimes.

And in a crazy turn of  _events_ , he’s staring down at the mostly eaten food, taking in this new world, and those wounds are still there, bleeding sluggishly, still killing him in  _degrees_. His brain isn’t numb to it all, the smallest actions and reactions, the exchanged looks and easy comfort, all of them looking to him like it should be totally  _natural_. It’s fucking with them, not getting it back from him. That’s what all the  _looks_  being thrown around means, the aborted movements, the calm and careful way they’re treating him.

He really is…one of them.

( _Mental note: trading gun-toting Batman future in exchange for BatClan is more of a win than he could have ever hoped for. Next steps once he gets back to his own time—find the correct series of events for this future. Execute._ )

**

Dick smiles down at him with such a  _fond_  expression, and all that sudden attention is…well, he’s not sure yet. There’s a lot of land between the two of them in his time, as little interaction as possible. It’s not  _fine_ , not what he ever wanted to happen, it just… was.

( _So that look might just make his shoulders relax, his chest lift a little easier)_

The ruffle to his hair, the sudden yet inevitable  _octopus hold_   _engaged_ (and  _wow_ , it never gets any easier to tolerate, especially when his fucking  _back_  is a raw mess and his joints are starting to get fucking  _achy_ ). It’s a whirlwind of motion and he’s just suddenly left with the two Robins that literally wanted him dead at one point or another.

That are now being  _stupidly_  careful with him.

Which is still a double-take for his brain, just not one that makes him want to deliver things like  _nerve strikes_.

Sneaking away from the table to head downstairs while Dami and Jay finish clean-up is absolutely a waste of time because Jason Todd manages to play the movie he set up earlier and paused on the TV, blocking the door downstairs with his big body.

When the opening plays, he doesn’t even have to  _guess_. It’s  _Thor: Ragnarok_.

Slowly,  _slowly_ , his narrowed gaze goes back to the smirking vigilante. The one that easily offers him the remote.

“ _How_  did you know—?”

A shrug and that smirk,

“This isn’t out in theaters yet in my time.” And he just  _shouldn’t_  even though a shiver goes up his spine and the couch kind of looks inviting.

“It’ll be  _soon_ , Timmers. Yer just gettin’ a first lookit, yeah?” Jay drawls it out because  _that asshole **knows**  about his nerd obsessions_.

Shit is starting to get  _real_.

“The temptation is strong with this one,” he deadpans tiredly because  _really_.

Damian however tuts at him, drying his hands and flipping the towel over one shoulder. It’s an  _easy_  thing when the two herd him over to the said overstuffed couch with hot chocolate instead of coffee.

“Richard has a point,” Dami chides gently, tucking an  _awesome_ fleece Flash blanket (… _yup, that’s never going to change_ ) around him, “we shall give you entertainment and allow you to rest while we gather supplies.” And the ghost of fingers, something he wasn’t apparently supposed to  _catch_ , as the back of his neck, sliding over the tips of his too-long hair. “It would be beneficial if you could manage a few hours of sleep. However, I understand your reluctance to do so.”

But, well, Tim’s a  _detective_ , Demon.

“You have dark circles under your eyes,” he starts off  _the list_ , “a tremor in your left hand, and your muscles are drooping. You’ve probably been awake over 48 hours straight.”

“It seems more than just your  _humor_  has rubbed off on me,” the youngest admits to cover the fact he’d been discreetly checking on how warm this past-Tim has become. Even with the antibiotics they witnessed him take earlier, he still looks too pale, more than just exhaustion creeping up on him.

A second mug of hot chocolate appears over Robin’s shoulder because  _some people_  make pretty good  _plans_  when his boys needed someone else to be just a mite more  _stubborn_ , “very funny, Baby Bat. Still, Timmers called ya out, yeah? Half-dead and still on his motherfuckin’  _game_.”

Jay steers Dami with familiarity, prodding his mid-back until he’s on the other end of the couch. And because the Hood is a man what  _knows_  his boys, he lets the movie play, moves to put the discarded tablet in Dami’s hands, taps a few things out on Timmy’s wrist computer to show him the place for a few more  _deets_  on the time travel algorithm. There’s another blanket to lay over Baby Bat, and he moves away, fakes being busy in the kitchen, giving the two exhausted birds a little time—

To drift off and finally  _sleep_.

When he comes back in twenty minutes to the movie still playing, he smiles softly when he takes the tablet and wrist computer from lax hands, uses all his Bat-talent to test the heat on Timmy’s forehead and lean down to press his mouth to Dami’s.

He’s going to hold down the fort while Dickie works the Manor side of things. He’s going to be easy-like with Timmers, banter and cajole him outta the snap when he needs to because Bats? Well, they don’t  _give in_. Maybe they oughta just give Timmy a little  _reminder_.


	19. From the 400 Followers Post: Robin's Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve wanted to write this for a long, loooong time, but just never got around to it and honestly, it's my fave from the Follower post on Tumblr. It’s kind of a What-If side-story to the Fracture Verse, one of those ‘You call, I’ll come’ kind of things. And ah, the title is kind of two-fold which just makes me so happy because it isn't just one Robin's redemption, really. Also, yet again, my suit kink is showing.

His mouth is hanging open, but that could have  _something_  to do with the glaring little Demon staring him down.

Because apparently it’s fucking  _opposite day_  or he’s stepped right into a multiverse where Damian isn’t a complete and total  _dick_.

Either way, his night is not looking  _up_.

“Say that again,” Red deadpans at the current Robin (who is just doing civvies in the Cave, his injured leg half-cast laying on a stool beside him while Titus gives a low whine from his position in the current Robin’s lap).

And since, well,  _Dami_ , the youngest vigilante rolls his eyes and gives Red a growling, “You are aware I called you to Gotham because I am in need of your  _aid_ , Drake. I have no idea why any of this is an–an issue.”

And so, well, yes. Yes, it’d been a shock when the call had come to the Tower from Robin, a Robin he hadn’t seen since shit like  _coming back to life_  had been  _a thing_.

So when Dami called, he got his ass in the repurposed Batwing and flew to Gotham like the hounds of hell were on his heels, carefully  _not_  thinking about how this is the first time he’d come back without world-ending catastrophes in the subject line.

Only for Damian to drop a proverbial ton of bricks right down on him.

Red’s whiteouts swing from the injured Robin over to the line of glass cases, narrows down on the empty glass case with the suit ( _his_  suit) now hanging on the outside. Like he could just pick it up and put it on again.

(Like  _that_  was ever going to happen.

Though, if Damian is to be believed, it just  _might._ )

“You said you needed my help,” he allows, still staring at his former uniform (and  _God_ , the  _memories_  right there with green tights and a red breast, with the collar on the cape that saved his ass from a collapsed windpipe on  _numerous_  occasions, the suit he wore for better or for worse, the one he made  _his own_  once up a time), glad when the old tension, the old tightness is barely a  _twinge_  anymore. “There was no mention of changing my  _name_ , or flying under  _yours_.”

The youngest Robin suddenly looks tense, his hand pausing on Titus’ head mid-pat. “I did not mention it as you would not have come,” is a simple explanation, “I have been hunting these underground fighting rings for weeks, and the source will not meet with anyone other than Robin. Thus, I am in need of someone that can still go  _out_  as Robin. Grayson is much too tall, and I cannot predict how Todd would even react, possibly by shooting everything in sight, which I do not need to deal with, and that, as you see, leaves you.” He waves a hand as if  _voila_ , everything explained.

Welp, not so much.

“Why not send Jon?” He almost,  _almost_  throws up his goddamn hands because  _really now_. “He’s your age, your height,  _also a superhero_ –”

“He would give himself away. Someone  _human_  and experienced. It must be another Bat, Tim.”

And  _that_? Dami calling him Tim?

“I hope you realize that isn’t even going to fit me anymore and neither are any of your suits,” he completely deadpans it, shaking his head a little because  _how_ ,  _how_  is this his life right now? Not only is he in the Batcave without the usual kind of probably cause, but he’s here because the Demon of all people called out.

He’s absolutely imagining Damian rolling his lips in an attempt not to  _smile_ , “it shall fit. That…is not your last Robin suit.”

Red goes still, completely  _still_. His eyes go over to the suit again and even though the dom covers his eyebrows, the youngest Robin can still read the Batanese without fail.

“Father is aware I am asking this of you. He voluntarily made the suit for this occasion. It is, of course, yours to take should you chose.”

At some point, he’d started moving across the short distance from the Batcomputer where Dami was held up, tentatively reaching out for the gleaming R on the left shoulder, right above the heart.

( _Fuck what a metaphor_.)

And Dami being  _easy_  about it, being  _calm_  and matter-of-fact, just a little  _reminder_  of the tentative acceptance that had been hard-earned and long-time coming, something that started after he was pretty much out of Gotham, something he’d kind of been working toward since that little trip to Darkseid.

And even if it was making his pulse pick-up, making nostalgia crawl up from deep in his belly, up his esophagus to lay on the back of his tongue, Red can’t find it in himself to refuse.

_Take a breath. Not a BFD, right? It’s just an old_ name _._

“Okay,” he breathes out slowly, “okay.”

He taps the Red Robin symbol on his chest, deactivating the suit’s security. His back to the injured Robin, he pushes the cowl back from his face without looking away from the suit.

Holding it again, getting ready to wear the tunic, it’s just  _this side_  of too much.

“Tell me everything,” his voice echoes, no matter how quiet it may be, not while he’s gripping the tunic in both hands, “and seriously, Demon, you  _owe_  me.”

Dami simply gives Red’s back a fond smirk, “I had anticipated you would need something else since this request is…unexpected. I hope that may make up for the inconvenience,” and one hand comes up to gesture further back in the shadows.

Since the possibility of  _what fucking else_  this odd, very Hitchcock-esqu scene conjure up (you know, certain items needing to be returned from Dami’s  _Year of the Blood_  trip, to a damn box full of kittens that needed to  _go to a ‘no-kill’ shelter, Drake, I will tolerate no less_ ). Needless to say he’s already on edge because of the too-accommodating “visit,” but when he cranes his neck to actually  _look_ and catches the shine half-hidden behind the big car on the raised daises, when he looks just  _past_  that, when his chest stutters on the next  _breath_ , he can finally believe what his eyes are telling him.

On his way in, how could he have possibly  _missed_  it.

Behind the Batmobile, parked and ready for him to climb in all over again, sitting clean and probably fully stocked, the glint  _sharp_  in the dimness of the Cave.

_The Red Bird_.

He doesn’t swallow his tongue, but it’s a  _close thing_.

“Is that  _really_ –?” And maybe his voice is a little  _hoarse_ , a little  _cracked_ , a little bit  _broken_. Maybe his hands tighten in the Red Robin gloves because he knows the feel of the wheel under his knuckles, maybe his eyes get a little  _hot_  when he can tell it’s been updated, re-designed because of shit like  _growth spurts_  and such.

“Yes,” and Dami’s voice is absurdly soft, the sounds of Titus panting a little more white noise. “What is Robin without his wings, Tim?”

His heel is soundless when he does a slow, full-body turn, stares at Robin with bare face and something stupidly, goofily  _fond_. The evidence falls into place in his brain while he watches the youngest vigilante try to remain calm and aloof when he’s fighting a  _satisfied_ expression that looks closer to murderously adorable than Red would have admitted to six months ago. It’s not lost on him how he’s been given this opportunity, this chance for the  _one last time_  he never got, from  _Dami_. It’s a hand extended with a tentative olive branch. (And isn’t  _just like that little shit to be all about **redemption**? Fuck if Dick isn’t right and it’s goddamned endearing._ ) It’s a chance to move past their troubled history, a chance to start over.

So it’s a much-needed  _moment_  when he looks back over the span of Cave, of familiar and new and  _memories_  that were just such fucking  _good times_. Standing here is more about possibilities, a light out of the proverbial  _night_.

His eyes hit the Red Bird again, the warm anticipation finally taking  _root_.

(And he knows his face is doing something like  _maniacal, gleeful grinning_ , because damn, even from here, she looks  _good_.)

“I trust we are now  _even_?” Baby Bat is hiding his smile behind folded hands, elbows on the computer’s deck, but those green eyes are twinkling at him, are lighter than Red can ever remember really seeing. It’s the first time he’s really seen the youngest Robin as a  _kid_.

“Dami?” And if his eyes are softer than normal, full of something like  _thank-you_ , “this?  _Totally_  makes us even.”

It’s really a crazy thing when Baby Bat laughs out loud, “maybe even a favor for next time I am in need of a detective?” The little shit gestures to the Red Bird, the Robin suit with an arched brow, “since Father and I put considerable effort to making this as authentic as possible.”

“All to go find your intel source,” but even he can hear the mirth in his tone.

“Absolutely,” is drawn out, “and–?”

“All right, all right, I will take the Red Bird and the suit in exchange for another bout of sleuthing. In between potential, world-ending disasters though, okay?”

“Excellent. I shall hold you to that, Tim.”

“I  _mean_  it, Dami. You call, and I’ll come.”

And the grin doesn’t fall off his face even when he turns on his heel, ready to throw it the fuck  _on_  and lace  _up_. The car ( _his_  car) and all the obvious care put in to make shit like giving him one last night as Robin strike him low in the abdomen while Dami turns back to the big computer, making Titus whine a little and flops down at the base of the chair.

And taking Red Robin off for the night in the  _absurdly_  familiar changing booth, in peeking into his old locker just out of  _curiosity_  to see it oddly…stocked, is still a rush in his veins starting to ramp up, to get ready for the night. But it’s putting Robin back on that sends electric up his spine when he sees himself, slides on gloves and gauntlets, trades black and red for  _green_. When his fingers automatically move in old,  _old_  muscle memory (of  _course_  B knew, World’s Greatest Detective), checking the shuriken R, the catch on the utility belt, the secondary security, the wraps on his wrists and ankles.

Dami is hiding a grin under his hand, pretending to be engrossed in the statistics running on the screen in front of him.

“Don’t wait up,” is Red ( _Robin’s_ ) reply, moving with the cape brushing his ankles, gleaming red, gold, and green.

“Ah, a moment. I expect you will need these.” Moving his foot carefully, Dami wiggles to the side in Father’s chair and pulls what he requires out of his pocket. He gives barely a flick of fingers in the toss before turning back to the screen, inordinately  _pleased_  with himself.

(The outcome in his estimation could have gone several ways, most assuredly with Drake being prickly considering their previous feud had been…brutal. All of their past could have still been raw enough for more bad blood between them, could have backfired and resulted in Drake moving even further out of Gotham. Luckily, the desired effect, to give some long-awaited  _closure_ , is one that could one day be beneficial in bringing his predecessor closer to the city, and  _thus_ worth the risks.  _Then_ , perhaps Grayson would finally stop his  _irritating_  and  _excessive_  moping.)

The older vigilante turns, pauses with his arms crossed over his red chest. A  _ching_  and he snatches the keys out of mid-air.

“Thanks, Baby Bat! I promise I’ll have her home by three,” is cheeky, right on the edge of laughter.

The mock scowl he gets over one shoulder in the light of the screen only makes him grin  _wider_.

“Tt, do not simply  _joyride_ , Tim. I am in need of the next location for their fight.”

“No worries,” his tone drops slightly, not nearly as dark as  _Red_ , but something lighter with witty banter and youthful  _anticipation_  for whatever he could possibly get into tonight, “it’s gonna be a good night all around, I can  _feel_ it.”

“ _Tt_. As if I am not already  _aware_  of your record as Robin. Honestly, as if I would have called you in had I not faith in your abilities.”

“Coming from you? That means a hell of a lot, Baby Bat,”

The words trail off behind him because he’s engrossed in running the pads of his fingers over the arch of Bird’s fender, going all the way  _up_. The smile is still there on his face when he pops the door, automatically sweeps his cape to the side, and slides into a seat that is still crazily  _here_  for him.

(Like it always had been…like he’d never really lost it after all and  _fuck_  doesn’t that make the whiteouts fuzzy for just a stupid second.)

And just like he already knows, like he can  _feel_  in the base of his spine, the engine turns over in a sensual  _purr_ , coming to life for him again, taking him out on one last  _ride_.

It’s old instincts rising up, making him pat the dashboard before he shifts in reverse, and it’s an amazing thing when he laughs out loud when it’s him and the Bird breaking into the night.

**

Jumping into the unknown is just a little  _business as usual_. It’s something ingrained, a practice woven into his  _skin_. The rooftops are familiar enough still that he could pick out the subtle shifts and differences, can spot the new dealers and gang bangers without more than a glance, can see past the ordinary store fronts, can take note of the new kids running the streets at night.

He’s at  _home_  watching, gathering intel, putting the pieces in place so the whole picture is all about being  _in your face_.

But it’s a crazy thing how the left side of his chest feels heavier with the R gleaming gold instead of his symbol at the center with bandoliers and a  _whole_  lot of different contingencies.

( _It’s red, gold, and green, the colors from the **best**  years. How fucking fitting. He should be less of an ass to Dami because he’d obviously_ thought _long and hard about this_.)

It’s  _crazy_  how he feels lighter and heavier in the same  _breath_ , with the grapple line in a green gloved fist, with his elbows bare and short sleeves, how the tights aren’t as reinforced, how the body suit wraps around him like a fucking  _glove_  (and he is and isn’t thinking about how this,  _this_ , makes his chest expand  _out_  again, like letting out a breath he’d been holding in for  _so fucking long_  because now,  _now_ , he gets the opportunity to fucking say  _good-bye_  this damn time around–)

Landing it on the fire escape of the Tudor-style flower shop just a few blocks from the Wayne Tower, and he stands spine-straight, perfect balance in the knee-high boots, heavier in the heels than the ones in his Red Robin suit, just a little something  _extra_  for those spinning back-kicks of Dick’s.

(And now he’s thinking of train hopping in the Haven, almost wiping out  _epically_  before N snatched him out of the  _oh shit_  zone at the last possible second, the times before their lives started spiralling out of control, so viciously  _fast._ )

It’s nothing to make the leap to the next roof and take the fuck  _off_ , to jump and dodge, to calculate the next step, the next roof, missing the trash piles and chimneys, stepping on the right spot to get the momentum he needs, keeping the grapple in hand for  _just in case_ , breathing in the dirty Gotham air while the muscles in his thighs start to  _burn_  and he feels fucking  _free_  again.

He runs like he’s thirteen and this is the rush of his  _life_ , he runs with a smart-ass grin, he runs like he can still make a difference.

He runs like he hasn’t run in  _years_.

And  _fuck_  does it feel  _good_.

**

The fighting ring Dami had been tracking was really just a group of random ass hats. As the youngest Robin had predicted, the contact was the nervous sort with the location of the next three dog fights–

(And why,  _why_ , didn’t he predict this? He thought Dami meant like  _guys fighting to the death_  kind of ring when it turns out to be illegal  _dog_  fighting.  _Sigh_.)

He doesn’t focus too much when the contact seems to be inching toward the mouth of the alley, but when it drops–

“ _Robin_.”

He gets the warm churning in his chest, can grin white in the night.

“Thanks for the intel. I’ll make sure the others know your name. As long as you’re more on the  _out_  than  _in_ , you’ll be good with us.”

“Yeah, yeah. Next one I hear, I’ll hit the short one up.”

“Good call. Stay out of trouble.”

Jumping around until he hit the Wallstone, can nudge himself under his old hideout, a place under the wings of the second gargoyle on the left, one with the chipped horn, not thinking about the way the stone collapses in around his shoulders, while he looks out over Gotham and devours a cereal bar. It’s strange to pick his computer out of his belt instead of it just being on his forearm, but he sends the deets to the Batcomputer and the Manor-bound Robin while he munches.

(And if he sees old ghosts, Steph in her first few months as Spoiler, Dick crouched beside him grinning around a mouthful of taco and talking about things like  _school_  and  _girls_  and  _always be safe Timmy_ ; if he sees the boots from under the swoop of the gargoyle’s wing, B finally come to find him and take him home because  _dammit_ , tests at school tomorrow–

_Who would really believe it anyway?_ )

Dami gives him an affirmative back, and then directions to Robin’s usual patrol route with a few interjections on the worst parts to keep in sight.

After a quick bite, he shoots the grapple and makes the next swing, takes on the route while the night softly fades with fog rolling in from Dixon Docks and the streets clear down to the last stragglers. The neon lights of all-night Hot Spots, five full swings and few muggers later and the bright Casinos are a whole new  _element_. Bouncers toss out the drunks, some addicts get high in an alley, white collars walk briskly with a real kind of  _purpose_.

And Robin,  _Robin_ , is the one that deals with it, that drops down out of the sky with a signature move, that banters with the bad guys, that gives an old smirk, one that works a whole different set of muscles in his face.

He fights fast and furious just like he does as Red, but to the trained eye (or the surveillance cameras O and Dami are monitoring) his kicks have an extra–

_Flare_

His punches are heavier, landing hard instead of fast and efficient. He pauses to talk up his game, grins while he’s knocking the  _snot_  out of people.

Zip typing is done with a bounce on the balls of his feet, his jumps are  _top notch_.

He’s ( _Robin_ )  _lighter_.

Riding the adrenaline like he hasn’t in  _years_ , he stays out as long as he possibly can, keeps Dami updated on his next move, takes time to breathe it in all over again.

When dawn is ready to start breaking on the horizon, when he jumps in the Red Bird like he still  _belongs_  behind the wheel, he finally high-tails it out of Gotham and through the familiar back roads and winding paths on the wave to the Cave’s main entrance.

He does and doesn’t expect Bruce to be there, is terribly  _relieved_ when the Cave is empty.

It gives him just a little more  _time_ , time to take off each piece fondly and put them on the mannequin in the glass case while a small grin stays in place. It gives him time to really open the locker and look at the shitty hair product and Pearl Jam stickers, the sharpie marks from Dick’s stupid comics, and a new pair of DCs where his always used to lay. A nerd shirt and jeans on the hooks inside so he could go civvie instead of Red if he wanted. A backpack is hanging up with the clothes, some suspicious-looking zip-lock containers at the bottom ( _cookies, are those ALFRED COOKIES?_ ), a current issue of The Avengers is stuffed down with a file folder of notes in B’s neat block printing, a few things on the cases he has running back at the Tower.

He blinks at it all, stares it down after he pulls the domino off, and fucking  _dammit_ –

He’s smiling again.

The clothes are the right size, everything fitting over his lean frame like it was just here  _waiting_. He takes the backpack and puts in his Red Robin gear along with the booty, thinks about reading the issue while the Batwing is on auto-pilot.

Even in the DCs, his footsteps are soft and light, the transition back to Red as the final vestiges of  _Robin_ , of everything he strove to  _be_ , settles back into his skin and muscle and down to the  _bone_. It’s easier, lighter than it had been earlier in the night, some tight tension he’d carried on his fucking back for too many  _years_  (like an automatic flinch even though you  _know_  the blow is coming), all of it finally,  _finally_  seems to ease.

( _This time, he got the chance to give it up on his own terms, his own **way** , got to have his last night, and for that? He’s probably not ever going to be able to repay Dami, but dammit if he isn’t going to at least  **try**_.)

Dressed and ready to rock, he makes a few notes on the softly glowing computer, hands moving in a steady, familiar rhythm. He does a McAfee update for shits and giggles, stands up to stretch, and realizes he should get  _ghost_  before B comes to consciousness around noon and comes down to make his usual notes.

And his eyes slide to the winding staircase, wondering if maybe,  _maybe_ …

_Not yet_.

_Soon though, maybe_.

Instead of traipsing tentatively up the winding staircase, to step foot in the Manor proper for the first time in  _years_ , to push the luck and seemingly hazy magic of tonight into the next level, Tim slides away from the big computer, makes his feet go the opposite direction, picks up the backpack and throws himself back on the Ducati he’d originally rode in on, helmets up over the soft, fond expression.

The glimmer off the glass cases is a little brighter in the rearview, the woods outside the Cave’s hidden entrance flowing gently in the breeze, and he’s lighter than he’s been in  _years_.

He might drive a little fast and laugh a little louder, he might go back to the Tower with some  _perspective_. He might keep the  _Avengers_ issue on his nightstand and read it a few too many times. He might look at that handwriting and the precise, condensed notes more than he really needs to. He might eat  _the hell_  out of those cookies when it’s time for  _real_  comfort food.

He might have a reason ( _reasons_ ) to come back, and he might, just  _might_ , have a reason for the other foot to settle a little close to the city.

_You call, I’ll come_.

Yup, sounds about  _right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dami is a murderous cinammon roll.   
> Fight me.


	20. De-Aged Jay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I connected with such a wonderful person on Tumblr [Caremorran](https://careamorran.tumblr.com) and asked to write a thing based off [this comic](https://careamorran.tumblr.com/post/162898781538/to-be-probably-continued-i-had-this-in-a-folder). I really just wanted a little fun and maybe a little angst ;)

 

The blast of sunlight in his eyes is the conscious train rolling down the track. You know, right at his  _face_.

After his syrupy thoughts evaluated the stabbing to his eyes as something non-lethal, the need to throw something sharp and vaguely bat-shaped at the defenseless windows fades enough that he can squint at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

_Dammit._

He and Jay have  _plans_  for the day. Partially because it’s been two years  _today_ , and since Jason Todd is actually a sentimental cinnamon roll underneath the intense  _murder you_  vibe, Tim had managed to wrangle his reluctant significant other into  _finally_  getting the new ident set-up. It’s been a  _long_  time coming, and they’ve been arguing on and off about seeing to the details for weeks.

(“Things like  _a driver’s license_ , Jay.”)

(A careless shrug with a mouth full of meatball sub, “I drive, Timmers. I drive  _all the time_.”)

(“ _Legally_. The key here is  _legally_.”)

His boyfriend had finally caved for their anniversary, and Tim would be  _damned_  if they missed the opportunity because of a long night in Gotham’s seedy underworld.

(Black Mask? Totally an ass hat, and  _no_ , he gives  _no shits_  about ruining the guy’s night.  _Seriously_ , fuck him. Mask literally hit on the Red Hood,  _right in front of him_.)

With a soft groan of the newly conscious, Tim sits up, still wavery, and in desperate need of caffeine.

_Desperate. Need._

The yawn is jaw-cracking, and he’s already reaching over for the lump of still-snoozing, just a tuft of dark hair peeking out from under their fluffy comforter in Jay’s room at the Manor.

If he grins a little, thinking someone as  _bad ass_  as the Red Hood is incredibly  _cute_ , well, no one else would ever have to  _know_.

“Jay,” his voice still husky is bordering on  _fond_ , “we should get up, it’s late.”

He’s expected the inevitable,  _“where’s m’ good morning kiss, Timmy?”_  and to be pulled back down because Jay is really just as bad as Dick when it comes to pre-consciousness cuddling.

The hand moving  _fast_  to grab his wrist, to stop him from making contact isn’t necessarily  _unexpected_  because of reasons like ingrained instincts and Robin training. The occasional accidental injuries aren’t anything new. At times, it might be things like terrible nightmares or remnants of the Lazarus Pit. On the flip side, it might be residual panic because instead of Kon or Bart or Steph or Bruce, it’s Jason spitting out a mouth full of blood and gripping his harness with wide eyes and stuttering heart.

“Hey, calm down, it’s just–”

And whatever he’d been about to say in the usual soothing way dies in his throat when Jay turns, still in the t-shirt he’d thrown in before they’d fallen into bed last night, and–

Tim’s eyes go wide in shock and surprise.

_Who the **fuck**  is in bed with me!?_

The set of jawline and ensuing frown is so painfully  _familiar_ –

From that time when Tim was a kid with a camera and  _Robin_  dove in out of the night to save him from a thug.

A Robin in his prime.

A Robin that’s  _fifteen_  instead of twenty-five.

_Holy shit, Batman._

“Oh…” is about all his half-wired brain can muster.

Those eyes, the same ones from the painting in the main hall that used to be one of his safe places, the eyes  _without_ the green flecks, take stock, roving over Tim’s sleep-mussed hair, his face, his bare throat and chest, his too-big boxers.

And something seems to  _click_.

“WHAAT THE FUUUCK?!!”

Is about as horrified as you can imagine.

The ensuing fight is really anticlimactic. Jason has aged-down equivalently, so while he can still duck, dodge, and fight better than any average person, he doesn’t have memories further than now meanwhile Tim hasn’t lost an ounce of his  _edge_.

“You need to calm it down,  _Robin,_ ” he tries while blocking a punch that is decidedly  _lower_  than what he’s used to. Yeah, throwing out  _that_  little bombshell is really a 50/50, but nothing else he can possibly  _say_  would help either:

_*I’m your boyfriend, and you will be seriously pissed at yourself if you hurt me._

_*I was the Robin after you, promise.  I only got **pants**  because those green panties were a hard ‘no.’_

_*You haven’t tried killing me in a whole_ year _. Can we stop trying to break the record_?

As it turns out, maybe he  _should have_  because those eyes go  _wide_ and the fight takes on a more desperate turn.

Well, fuck.

He catches the knee before it takes out his jaw, his suddenly longer reach catching the much smaller fist in the palm of his hand. “That’s  _enough_ , Jay. You’re going to–”  _get yourself hurt_.

But the younger is panting and red-face, gritting his teeth with narrowed eyes, and an obvious plan in the works when he realizes he’s not going to beat Tim.

“Who,” and the tone isn’t as low and growling as the Red Hood, but it still jars Tim right in  _all_  the places where he’s still mesmerized by the second Robin, “the  _fuck_ are you and how didja find  _out_?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so I’m going to let Bruce and Dick fill you in,” he replies, easing back slowly.

The teenager’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“How about this then: you hide books all over the Manor. Alfred found  _A Separate Peace_ ,  _The Outsiders_ ,  _1984, To Kill a Mockingbird,_ and  _The Once and Future King_  just to name a few.” He leaves the ones  _he’s_  found off the list just because the memories of his post-Robin life are apparently gone, and Tim is in  _no hurry_  to fill him in on the horrific events starting with the trip to Ethiopia.

Jason’s mouth falls open in a little  _‘o’_  of shock.

“One more just so you feel better about this: the first time B got hurt,  _seriously_ _hurt_ , defending you, you called Dick at Titan’s Tower in New York.” His hands up in that  _not dangerous_ pose, he eases just slightly closer, tilting his head to actually look  _down_. “It was that time with Killer Croc and you were freaked out.”

“How–” the teenager struggles, blinking at him with those blue, blue eyes, all of it without the Pit’s influence riding him.

With that realization, a horrible kind of  _plan_  hits Tim right in the brain pan.

“I  _know_  you’re Robin, so there’s some evidence, Mister Junior Detective.”

Jay gives him a huffing sneer, “real wise ass, ain’t cha?”

“Learned from the best,” he deadpans with a sad half-smile and fond eyes, “So, I vote we go downstairs, find Alfred so I can have some coffee, and then Bruce so he can have a  _holy shit_  moment of his own.”

Still staring at him, still calculating the risks and possible nefarious plots afoot, Jason only follows because he’s planning the best way to take this  _guy_  he’d woken up with down (and maybe staring down at his ass) while they went down the grand staircase.

Luckily, as it happens to  _go_  in Wayne Manor, at least someone has the patience to deal with things like  _utter fuckery_.

That person will always be Alfred Pennyworth.

“Good morning Master–”

If Tim wasn’t as light and fast on his feet, there would be a whole lot of smashed ceramic all over the floor.

“My-my  _word_ , Master…Master Jason?”

“Mornin’ Alf,” the teenager waves a little, grinning sheepishly. “Found Slick here runnin’ the halls, so’s I thought maybe ya know  _who_  he is.”

( _Slick?_  Tim arches a brow at that because  _really_ )

Alfred blatantly looks over, immediately getting back his usual calm, cool, and collected. “I  _do_  hope the scuffle I heard upstairs did not result in any bloodshed on the Turkish carpets, Master Tim.”

“I’m hurt at your complete lack of faith in my kick-ass skills, Alfred,” he waves a hand on his way to the sideboard where wonderful things ( _like coffee, please, please, please give him coffee to be able to_ deal _with this and what he should very much **not**  tell Jason_) waited. He pauses to get his thoughts together, makes a mental Venn Diagram of the potential backlash of both scenarios, and adds cream with a little sugar so he doesn’t down the first mug liked boiling lava.

“I’m Tim Drake. Nice to meet you, by the way. It’s much nicer when we’re not trying to kill each other,” and  _yeah_ , that’s Alfred clearing his throat just a little. “I’m also a vigilante, so  _of course_  I’ve heard of Robin,” luckily, the way to trip up Jason’s radar is to tell the lie with just enough  _truth_  mixed in, “and I do work with Batman sometimes on out-of-town cases. I also do data collection and reconnaissance for the Titans, who I’m sure you’ve at least  _met_  at this juncture.” First few desperate sips accomplished, he moves to take a spot at the table and wait until Jason warily joins him, scrappy and scrawny, eyes that take in everything.

And he moves lighter on his feet, without  _a hell_  of a lot of burdens and probably a  _mass_  of missing scars from things like crowbars and insane psychopaths that deal in megalomaniacal delusions of grandeur. It’s a Jason Tim’s only known with a  _mask_ , and it’s a rough moment to stop himself from reaching out across the table to grip those twitchy fingers, but all he can do is swallow his heart back down in the vicinity of his chest, glance at Alfred with a little  _Batanese_  using just his eyebrows.

Without giving the his younger boyfriend an opportunity to ask, he cuts in with, “occasionally, B lets me stay over when a case gets…rough. It was last night anyway. I’m sorry I surprised you, but I’d been awake for about seventy-odd hours by then, so I was pretty compromised.”

_Pretty much all true_.

During the distraction, Alfred turns to busy himself at the sideboard. A glow in Tim’s peripheral is probably the butler texting the fam. B,  _Come downstairs immediately_ ; Damian,  _please do not yet come downstairs. I shall bring breakfast up straight away_. Dick,  _your presence would be appreciated at the Manor. It seems we have a situation_. To make it a little more  _obvious_  he’s being serious, Alfred  _completely_  takes advantage of a displaced Jason, too busy staring Tim down from across the table, to snap a discreet picture to follow-up all those texts.

A fresh glass of juice and a side cup of coffee makes some of the tension ease from Jay’s shoulders, “sounds pretty stupid, you feel me? First rule of being a cape: take care a’ yerself. What we got against these crazy assholes? At the end of the day, it’s yer fists and yer brains, so ya gotta make sure ya got enough in ya ta take the beating.”

And it’s a fifteen-year-old  _Jason_  pointing a finger at him around his juice and all mock-serious, which it totally why he starts laughing without snorting coffee up his nose. Points for  _him_.

“You are  _terrible_  at mocking B in lecture-mode.  _Terrible_ ,” he shakes his head a little once he’s sure he isn’t going to choke, “more practice, okay? You’ll totally  _get there_ , but don’t think you’re  _ever_ beating out Dick. He is the official runner-up in the  _Best Dad Lecture_ category.”

A heartbeat and Jason starts to crack a grin, laughing out loud in that younger voice, the blue of his eyes without the Pit lingering, without the grim realizations of the day he’s going to die ( _again_ ). He’s so heartbreakingly  _innocent_  of it all (and Tim just wonders how  _Bruce_  is going to take this because things like  _tears_  and  _BatDad_  are going to go down soon–he can  _feel it_ ).

So by the time Alfred emerges from the kitchen with warm eggs and fluffy waffles, the tension has eased down between the former Robins by the way they throw stories back and forth.

“Yer kiddin’ me,” Jason deadpans back.

“All true, I  _swear_. Freeze and Ivy watched him  _bust his bat ass_ –”

“Y’know, there was one time he fell through a crappy roof right inta a ladies’ shower, right?”

“I’m sorry  _what now?_ ”

“That ain’t what  _she_  was thinking, Timmy. Just takin’ a shower and  _boom_ , there’s the  _Bat_  admiring the  _decor_  an’ shit.”

The mental image is enough to get him started all over again, laughing while huddled over his precious,  _beautiful_  coffee and lost staring at the fucking  _beautiful_  sight of his younger, unburdened significant other. Even better, more evidence in favor of the formulating plan clicks into place with Jason’s easy laugh and wild gestures. But it all comes down to basic facts: fifteen or twenty-five, this is the crazy idiot he  _loves_. And if this is a golden opportunity to give the guy a second  _chance_ , one without the Joker and ticking bombs, without being buried  _alive_ , and thrown in the Lazarus Pit, it might well be worth the effort.


	21. Another Soulmate Ask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for a soulmate thing. Welp, there's that.

For people like the Bats, shock seems to wear off quickly.

“Timmy,” and there’s a  _whole_  lot of warning in that tone, immediately making the youngest vigilante’s hackles  _rise_.

“I really should have locked the door,” could be a casual observation from the detective but is really something to distract while he whips a towel down from the rack and hastily wraps it over the mark (the fucking  _mark_ ).

“You wanna explain  _that_  ta me?” Because Jay gives  _no shits_  about things like almost breaking the goddamned  _door_  down when they’d gotten a report Red was in a lower side shoot-out and hadn’t checked the fuck  _in_.

(Already told that little asshole he ain’t gonna get away with it—not any fucking  _more_. They ain’t gonna let ‘im go off without a safety net, without  _options_. They been trying ta work him back into the family, work themselves back in his  _life_. Apparently they ain’t got far enough  _in_.)

The hand holding the towel is tight, knuckles mottled, giving him away.

“I don’t think you’d believe it’s a tattoo.”

But the flecks of green in those eyes get  _dark_  and the line of Jason Todd’s jaw goes  _tight_. His own plans are churning behind those intense eyes, moving from the covered mark ( _the same mark on Dickie, the same mother **fucking**  mark on _him,  _also on_ –) on Tim’s hip and up his wet chest, the curve of collar bone—

To the barely discernible scar at the base of his throat.

“I’m calling Dick,” is his inevitable answer, “an’ if y’ try ta duck out the window, Baby Bird, I am gonna hunt ya the fuck down, drug yer stupid ass, tie ya t’ my  _bed_ , and lookit that spot for my damn  _self_. Do you  _feel me_  here?”

“You don’t have to call Dick,” is N’s voice from the hallway right outside the bedroom. “I take it you found our bird, Little Wing. Is he bleeding out? Do we need to call Alfred in on this?”

Tim’s eyes blow wide because  _fuck, fuck, **fuck**_.

( _This isn’t how he ever wanted them to find out. He never expected them to, not really. Even if he saw their marks with his own eyes years ago, even if he died a little inside every time Jason lashed out, beat him, cut him, shoved a fucking batarang in his damn chest; every time Dick turned away without a second_ thought _. Even through all of that, he couldn’t tell them, couldn’t put himself in their hands, not after everything_.)

Jay’s snarl turns into a smirk, keeping his eyes on Tim, blocking the doorway to the bedroom and possible freedom, he calls over his shoulder, “we sure as  _shit_  don’t need anyone else here, Dickie. But Timmy? He’s got a fucking  _story_  ta tell.”

From the looks of it, he’s out of options this time, and his eyes narrow when Nightwing peeks over Jay’s shoulder, brows drawn in that  _we were slightly concerned_  kind of way.

“I like stories, Timmy. I hope it’s a good one,” N smirks, one hand already on his soulmate’s shoulder in an attempt to ease him down.

When Tim doesn’t come back, doesn’t move, doesn’t lose that calculating expression, Nightwing gets a low sense of foreboding right in the pit of his stomach that tonight isn’t going to be the movie night he’d hoped for.

 


	22. Soulmate Ask Part 2!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My babe poison-basil liked the soulmate thing from the 500 Follower post on Tumblr and made me art in exchange for this. Ah, it's been up for a minute, yet it was horribly written, so a bit better now ;) Oh, and it's all ANGST. 
> 
> You're welcome :`)

 

When people like  _ Jason fucking Todd _ want to have a little convo, you know it’s time to hit the ground running.

He already knows they aren’t going to give him the time to get a full suit and sundries on, wrapping his wrists and ankles, clothes under the body suit, armored tunic, gloves and gauntlets, boots and cape, utility belt and harness, all of it is going to take too long and hinder the escape, not to mention take precious time away from his intended get-away.

(Because there is no way he is in  _ any _ kind of shape to have this sit-down. He’s hitting the hard end of a long few weeks fighting crime, running on fucking coffee fumes. He doesn’t trust himself to be objective, to pull off the bullshit tech he’s going to need to spew out so Dick and Jay realize all of this is just NBD. Some soulmates never connect, as much as it sucks, some don’t agree with the choice destiny makes for them, and he  _ gets  _ that. So he’s not going to slot himself in their relationship and fuck it all up. He’s not going to make them do something they obviously wouldn’t  _ want _ . The best way he can do this, the easiest way, is to put some distance between him and them, keep it business as usual:  _ Sorry, Hood, N. Baddies to stop, you know. The soulmate thing? Nah, nothing has to change. We’re going to still beat people up and banter in-between. See you at the next Vigilante Anonymous meeting _ .)

It’s easier said than done, but Tim manages dark jeans, T-shirt and hoodie, utility belt underneath as fast as he can possibly throw it on, still riding the dredges of sleep dep and totally minor  _ owfuck _ .

( _ Ignore the Mark, ignore the Mark, ignore the Mark _ .  _ It doesn’t hurt anymore, convince me otherwise. _ )

And even though he’s been found out, been  _ caught _ , he still slaps the flesh colored patch over the damn Mark on his hip by  _ rote _ . Most of his life hiding it, the automatic gesture can’t be overridden, so he goes with it, crouched on the window sill with a regular line in hand instead of the grapple in the hopes he won’t make too much noise–

_ On the way out _ .

**

When Jason Todd wants to have a conversation—

He wants to have a  _ motherfucking conversation, Timmy _ .

Which is why he never intended to give Tim enough time to get fully suited up before he’s pounding on the damn door.

“ _ Clothes _ , asshole,” he reiterates, “not’cha Sunday best.”

Unfortunately, what he  _ did _ give Timmy time enough to do is get out the fucking window.

_ Goddammit _ .

The space in his chest, the one he hadn’t realized had always been so fucking  _ empty _ , throbs with some kinda secondary  _ pain _ since some of the blanks, some of the  _ whys _ and  _ what fors _ started to get filled in, start to give him a fuller picture.

(And Jason Todd is a man what  _ knows _ all about being the  _ bad Robin _ . Knows what it’s like ta be left the fuck behind. Knows how far gone Timmy had been fer too goddamned  _ long _ , how much they had ta fight that little asshole tryin’ ta get him ta come  _ back _ . Now alla that effort is motherfucking  _ worth it _ , yeah? ‘Cause his boy has been living, running, fighting, on his own without nobody at his back but those Super Shits and damn if it don’t make Jason Todd’s Mark ache like fuck just thinking ‘bout it. But the up side to this fuckery? Izzat Timmy’s done  _ hiding _ .)

When no snarky answer is forthcoming, Jay picks the damn door in a New York minute and forces it open. Dick is still in Nightwing, trying to do the things any good soulmate would, like try to calm him down.

“Jay, whatever it is, we can talk about it rationally–”

“Ya don’t got the evidence yet, Officer Grayson,” while the tumbler clicks, “but ‘cha will when we peg Timmy’s ass  _ down _ .” His jaw tight with all those thoughts churning, of Tim staying away, refusing to show them his matching Mark before  _ now _ , seemed content to never tell them the fucking  _ truth _ .

He and Dickie have a  _ helluva _ row to hoe with him, and it was gonna start  _ tonight _ .

( _ Already wasted too much time without ya, Baby Bird. Not another fucking night _ .)

Starting to work closer to the edge of exasperated, N throws up both hands, “well then, why don’t you tell me now and cut to the chase? This is about more than just a bad night in Gotham, Sweetheart.”

“Mmhm, an’ when Timmy comes  _ out _ with it, yer gonna understand why I’m so goddamned  _ pissed off _ right now.”

Angry and in some real fucking  _ pain _ , but he can’t say that to Dickie, not yet. He can’t let it slip how much his fucking heart  _ bleeds _ now that it knows why he’s never felt fully complete ( _ had always assumed it was because the Pit owned a piece of his fucking  _ **_soul_ ** ), and now that he knows the touch of their third (like they shoulda always  _ had _ ), Jason Peter Todd literally  _ aches _ .

But he’ll have to be one miserable asshole once he stops his wayward soulmate from  _ running the fuck away  _ because some motherfuckers can’t deal with emotions and shit.

( _ Thanks, B. Really doing a solid for the Robins. _ )

Cue opening the bedroom door in the Perch—

And  _ nada _ .

Cursing like his ass is on fire, Jason Todd takes off back down the hall to his bag tossed carelessly on Tim’s kitchen table (and his Mark,  _ their Mark _ gives a throb of  _ runrunrunhavetokeeprunning _ ). He roots around quickly, finds the “special” magazine for his .45s, and is already moving to the windows, clicking his helmet into place. N paces him, brows drawn in worry.

“At least tell me why would he just take off like that?  _ Jason _ , what the hell is going on?” But Nightwing is unconsciously working his gloved fingers at the apex of his thigh where his Mark sits high on his bad leg, not really focusing on what he’s doing, too honed in on Jay and probably worried about why Tim took off.

So Hood doesn’t call him on it, doesn’t give it any  _ attention _ , because he’s not going to prematurely throw-down the rude awakening ( _ and Jay doesn’t know the  _ whys  _ or _ hows _ the Bond got lost, the connection didn’t get made in the first place–for him or Dickie. Just ‘nother reason they gotta pin the little motherfucker  _ **_down_ ** ). He’s got a plan, tryin’ ta make it easier on the three of them. Step one is keeping Timmy from skipping town, step two is get the truth straight outta the Robin’s mouth, step three is never let that asswipe go.

Seems fucking  _ legit _ .

“Lemme level with ya, Baby Boy.” Before he pulls the grapple, Hood unload his dominant .45 and shoves in the special clip, pulls the slide back to make sure one is in the chamber.

( _ Wanna have the aim spot-on fer this one _ .)

“Timmy’s been keepin’ something from us.  An’ when I say s’ pretty goddamn  _ serious _ , I ain’t just whistling Dixie. So’s we gotta stop ‘im ‘fore he beats feet outta Gotham.” Hood keeps his voice harsh, tries to hold on to his anger instead of the pain, needs the anger to keep himself clear-headed enough to give chase. Otherwise, if he really stops to  _ think  _ about it, where Tim’s been the last few years, what they’ve missed out on, what they haven’t been able to  _ have _ –

( _ He might just curl up in a corner and fucking  _ weep _ with the unfairness of it all. He’s already fucking died, already lost every damn thing imaginable, so why can’t destiny do him a solid on this one  _ **_fucking_ ** _ time? _ )

Even with the whiteouts up, N can venture a guess at how dark Hood’s eyes are, how  _ this _ little sitch might go down. Worst-case scenario is residuals of the Pit riding some old instinct, and Nightwing would absolutely  _ shut him down _ before he made a move against their slowly returning Timmy.  _ Sorry, Sweetheart _ .

(And he already knows Jay would be devastated if he hurt Tim anyway, would be grateful Dick stopped him before he went  _ too far _ . Knows how the scar at Tim’s throat, on his thigh, on his chest from a bat-a-rang during the fight for the cowl haunts Jay in his weakest moments. So Dick would do what he’s been trying to do since the Bond seemed to  _ click _ –be a good soulmate and try to keep Jason Todd from doing more damage to  _ himself _ .)

The underlying connection between them, the hum under his skin that sank in like a second heartbeat, the most natural thing in his  _ life _ , is oddly calm and terrified at the same time, lacking any real anger. It’s just enough of a distraction to make this very  _ something else _ .

The detective in Nightwing doesn’t have all the pieces just yet, but what he has gathered is enough to be absolutely  _ concerned _ .

(Not to mention how his Sixth Sense is still tingling because Tim did  _ not _ look like anything other than calmly neutral, slipping past the two of them to throw on some clothes after the debacle in his bathroom. That expression is one of the many masks the third Robin wears when things have hit the  _ extreme _ , so of course Nightwing is on high alert.)

Behind the whiteouts, N muses on the next steps while his eyes slide over, taking in the open window in Tim’s bedroom. The super-sharp focus of his soulmate ready to hunt down their fellow former-Robin is the next indication of something very  _ not right _ in Gotham t.

While Jay stares at him from behind the helmet with complete Bat-stillness, waiting for him to make a call on whether or not he’s following the  _ stop Timmy  _ train, N considers what he’s looking at and how the obvious needs outweigh Tim’s privacy. In the span of a breath, he flips on the comm to let B and Rob know they’re done for the night, something on the personal side of things has come up. Keep stomping the baddies, they meet up tomorrow to give notes on the usual array of criminal hilarity.

Hood pauses, looks up long enough to see his soulmate take the comm out of his ear and duck it away in his utility belt. Crack of the knuckles, and N is ready to rock.

“Okay then. Let’s go get him.”

Behind the helmet, Jay’s grin is probably halfway to moronic when Dickie just gives in and trusts him.

( _ He’s gonna be pretty fucking  _ **_pissed_ ** _ too when the whole story comes out though, ain’t he? _ )

It’s bittersweet, making their side of the Bond warm to offset the anxiety and adrenaline pulsing through the dulled, barely-there link with Timmy that Jason stubbornly clings to, the one Dickie is going to catch onto eventually.

But Hood just lets it ride, can’t force the connection on Dick and Tim’s side. He needs to let them trigger it themselves, and then…

Well, who the fuck knew?

Pointing the grapple and snagging his ( _ other _ ) soulmate up with the free arm, Hood shoots straight to take them out of the window and into the night.

Apparently, the chase is  _ on _ .

**

Next time he’s going to try and outrun two seasoned vigilantes ( _ reads as: former Robins _ ), he’s def going to make time to put on his wing pack and gauntlets. Not that he hasn’t been in this little sitch  _ before _ , but there’s something about a Kevlar and Nomac weave that makes flying through Gotham a little more  _ dignified _ .

Tim has his hoodie zipped up, trying to keep as covered as possible when he shoots the grapple to try and make it all the way across town to the hidden Batplane. One that would be such a righteous getaway vehicle right about now.

( _ Seriously, he’d give his right  _ **_arm_ ** _ for the Red Bird _ .)

The whole twenty seconds he’d allowed himself to  _ flip the utter fuck out _ had not been nearly enough to keep him from making the usual array of bad life-style choices.

It’s not like he doesn’t  _ know _ he’s going to have to face them eventually,  _ knows _ how that little convo is going to go, and he needs time to plan it out, to try and make it as painless as possible _. _ He’s got to put some distance so they won’t see it all up close and personal, so he can at least  _ try _ to protect them from the backlash.

And himself.

Because the answers aren’t going to be easy to hear, and his bullshit tech is only two-thirds on when it comes to things like why he never told them about the Mark, why the Bond didn’t fully manifest for them, why he couldn’t hold on to the connections, why he kept it to himself, why he never came  _ out _ with it all, especially once Jay and Dick figured themselves out and decided they needed to give their Bond the chance it deserved.

(And the truth is going to fucking  _ break him _ , isn’t it?)

Sitting down to come clean about the Mark he’s hidden from everyone for the majority of his life is not in the cards tonight.  _ Nope _ . If he doesn’t have time to prep, it’s all going to end  _ badly _ .

So. Change of plans.

Trying to get through the vents to his arsenal of Ducatis and beater cars in the underground storage would have taken too long, given his co-vigilantes ( _ soulmates _ ) more than enough time to figure him out. Playing the subtle but strategic retreat  _ a la civvies _ it is then.

It’s worse because he’s trying to be  _ super discreet _ and not give himeself away to half the city. Just some guy chilling on the rooftops and leaping off buildings. You know,  _ Gotham _ .

Honestly, he doesn’t need Gotham PD tracking him, not after the many stunts of CEO Tim Drake in the last few years. (Get shot once in front of a ton of reporters, and some people just never forget.  _ Seriously. _ )

But because he’s wearing his DCs instead of boots with heavier soles, he gets tripped up on Pembroke and Main, almost slides right over a fire escape to the treacherous alleyway below.

For a heart-stopping second, he clings to the crappy thing and  _ breathes _ .

The plan is to hit up the Batplane and give the three of them some time to take it all in by going on a little trip overseas, maybe find some trouble to get into for a few days ( _ reads as: weeks _ ), have a reason to go dark, no communication, not even with the Titans.

(Because once  _ they _ found out, his team, well-meaning as they  _ are _ , would go to whatever lengths necessary to bring his ass back to Gotham.

“So, you  _ don’t _ have a soul mark?”

“…unfortunately, no. No, I don’t.”

“Fuck man…I’m  _ sorry _ .”

“Just means I’m not meant for world-altering destiny. That’s fine. I make plenty of trouble on my own.”)

If Jay went to the Titans looking for him, told the team why he was so intent on having a little talk with Red Robin, that could go even  _ worse _ . He imagines Kon and Bart would be  _ adamant _ about finding him ASAP because for some reason, they liked to slip some of the down-and-dirty deets on his case-load and general health to B on the low, completely on board the  _ Tim’s Been Away Too Long _ plan on the Bat side of things.

They’d probably be pissed he’s been lying to them all this time–

( _ They aren’t the only ones. _ )

–and would have  _ no fucking problem _ hand-delivering him to Dick and Jay.

He can’t have that. Not-not  _ now _ .

Besides, he’s had years,  _ years _ , to get over the fact the Mark he’s sporting is some fucking cosmic  _ joke _ .

He’s used to the constant ache on his hip, his body rebelling against being close to his soulmates and holding back the Bond. He’s used to keeping the Mark covered, hidden, used to keeping himself above the pull of his soul, used to denying the urge to reach out, used to putting on a Mask in front of his team and the Bats and the fucking  _ world _ so even Dick and Jay would be none the wiser.

All of it was to protect them as much as himself. It’s a good plan, the right thing to do, the thing  _ Robin _ would do.

(He’s dealt with people that would be better off without him most of his life, how is this any different?)

Even worse, trying to get that across to his soulmates is going to break the fragile peace that finally settled between him and the Bats. The place they’ve come to, a good place, is going to fracture apart and put him right back with a foot out of Gotham since things like  _ who needs  _ **_that_ ** _ guy _ , but really, he’s got no one to blame but himself.

The Bond, the mystical  _ connection _ , praised as the defining moment when soulmates recognize one another and finally become  _ complete _ , hit him at Haley’s Circus when he was just a kid, posing for the picture snuggled down in a young Dick Grayson’s lap.

He’d been too young back then, hadn’t  _ understood _ (but the moment will always be  _ crystal fucking clear _ , the second he looked up at Dick and got the full blast of that  _ smile _ with those twinkling eyes, the connection brushed against him, making him feel fuzzy and warm, making him  _ ache _ with how right it was for him to be right here, right in that moment…) until later, when he was overwhelmed with such terrible grief and fear and  _ agony _ . The connection had been too fragile for him to hold, had been  _ burning _ with all the emotions he couldn’t even process at his age, and the Bond had broken before Dick could understand it either, before the older boy had realized he’d met his soulmate and lost his parents in the same day.

And Tim never pushed it, even after he officially got the cape and moved into being part of the Batfamily. He could have blurted it out then, how they met, how he hadn’t  _ known _ , how guilty he felt later that he’d just  _ left _ Haley’s Circus (that he’d left  _ Dick) _ when the Flying Graysons died. Instead, Tim decided to wait, biding his time until he was old enough (you know,  _ legal _ ) to come clean, to tell Dick  _ everything _ .

Years of training and fighting and being  _ partners _ . Years of watching other people take a place at Dick’s side,  _ his _ place. Years of being the little brother when he needed  _ more _ than that. Years of denying himself, of denying them  _ both _ .

He thought it would all eventually be worth the pain.

( _ God, he was so wrong _ .)

Still, he tried. So help him, he  _ tried _ .

In all those years when he had to hide his Mark, his feelings, his needs, his  _ wants _ , he still tried to make Dick happy however he possibly could. He kept Batman from degrading, fought the good fight, and made the name  _ Robin _ his own.

Everything that would make Dick proud to have him as a soulmate.

He was a good Robin, a good little brother, a good  _ friend _ .

( _ When he was younger, he used to have it planned out in so many different ways. How he would wait until his 18th birthday, ask Dick if he could crash in the ‘Haven and have a movie night.  Fight some crime and come back to throw popcorn at the TV and try his best to upgrade Dick’s piece of crap iPhone. He might be casual about it the first time, tell Dick he’s pretty sorry he’d kept it a secret for so  _ long.  _ Then Dick would hug him so  _ **_tight_ ** _ , would tell him it was okay, it was fine because they had each other now, they would always be together. And Dick would kiss him desperately, want him just as badly, need him almost as much– _ )

Tim always thought they would end up together in the end, no matter what. Even if the terrible happened and Bruce was killed in action, if it was just him and Dick against the crazies of Gotham, of the  _ world _ , he always thought they would stand together and take on whatever the baddies threw at them.

He’d taken it for granted really, especially how that exact scenario plated out in the end. Before that, it was the one real belief he’d banked on, that he fully  _ believed in _ .

At least, until Jason Todd almost killed him.

Until a slip of a bat-a-rang took out Red Hood’s armor.

Until the Mark,  _ his _ Mark, Dick’s Mark, was right there in his face, choking him out just as sure as the slice across his throat because Jason Todd, his predecessor, his other soulmate, one of the people who should have wanted to protect him, love him, need him…just wanted him  _ dead _ .

Whether it was because Jason came back to life, or was riding a whole bunch of Lazarus Pit  _ crazy _ , the connection was muted, was so full of hate and rage and pain that it couldn’t possibly ever  _ be _ , not matter what the universe put on their skin.

It left Tim the only one with the half-formed Bond thrumming under his skin, able to feel how much Jason Todd fucking  _ hated _ him.

( _ And how it destroyed him back then, when he was still wearing the R. The kid he’d wanted to honor, the one who’d made the ultimate sacrifice, the one that had been  _ his _ Robin, the one he followed through Gotham when he’d been a stupid kid with a camera, still in awe with every Robin was and had become. How he’d been fucking  _ broken _ to realize his idol was not only his soulmate but hated him enough to slit his throat in a gross parody of the Joker’s smile. _ )

Dick, though, apparently had the right connection all along, and in the last few years, those two have come out as Bonded. They’ve been together, working and living and loving just fine on their own. Sometime after the Battle for the Cowl, when Tim had taken off for Iraq, those two apparently figured it out.

( _ Without him _ .  _ But when is that really anything new? _ )

His knuckles tighten down on the fire escape while he takes this nice little  _ trip _ back into his sordid past, reminds himself why nothing good is going to come from facing them down now. All of it would be easier done from the Batplane several countries away where he can be objective about the whole thing, so when he gives them all the necessary apologies and placations, he can turn off the screen, sink down in his own little world, and mourn something so beautiful died before it ever comes to fruition.

Instead of acknowledge the tiny spark of hope inside him fading in degrees, the thrum under his skin getting less muted with proximity, and gets his immediate attention. Apparently, he’s almost out of time. For the moment, what he needs to do is get the fuck up and get across the next roof. What he needs to do is keep fucking  _ running _ .

What he needs to do is put his game-face on and take the rejection like a fucking Robin.

With grim determination, he uses his grip on the fire escape to jump up, brace himself for a hot minute, and make another leap.

( _ It’s fine, regardless as to how this little sitch is going to go down because he’s had enough time to realize he’d never get to keep them anyway _ .)

**

The Wallstone is really part of the Robin Rite. It’s a mass of old Gotham architecture with additions in the up-and-coming  _ new _ , a crazy hybrid B absolutely  _ loves _ . The gargoyles have silver sharpie mustaches from his time as Robin, black nails from Dick’s, crude jokes on the inside of their wings from Jay’s, a cute limerick from Steph’s, and even a small drawing of a bird-in-flight from Dami’s. Their names, all taken from Kryptonian lore, are on the back of stone calves in Dick’s handwriting. Flamebird has always been his personal favorite.

( _ Telling how your favorite is Nightwing’s mate and partner, isn’t it, Tim? _ )

He’s spent too many nights huddled under a stone wing eating a quick power bar and slurping down coffee or a grape Zesti on a break between patrols. The gargoyles, the roof, the old wrought iron and new-aged brick combination are familiar things in his brain pan.

Which absolutely  _ sucks _ when he falls against one, knocking himself in the forehead when a sharp snap of pain hits him abruptly right in the back of the thigh.

He’d apparently miscalculated the position of the familiar  _ bang _ , thinking Hood really wouldn’t go so far as to actually  _ shoot him _ .

( _ Welp, been wrong before _ .)

He hits a knee, automatically running a hand along the back of his thigh to gauge the shot–

And pulls a tranq dart out of his damn leg.

“Son of a fucking  _ bitch _ .”

The injection hits his system like a runaway freight train, making him lightheaded in a matter of minutes, making nausea roll up through his gut. Tim leans over to gag, blinking rapidly, fumbling with the utility belt under his shirt.

( _ Something’s wrong with whatever this is. It shouldn’t be hitting so hard so fast. _ )

“Oh my  _ God! _ Hood, I can’t believe you–!”

“ _ Shut it _ , N. He knew what was doin’. Warned ya, didn’t I, Timmy?”

“…Fuck you, too,” he moans out miserably, grapple in a shaky hand.

“Naw, we ain’t there yet. Gotta have it  _ out _ first, you feel me?”

And through his spotty, wavery vision, he sees the two shapes striding across the rooftop toward him, and something in the vicinity of his chest tightens in  _ panic _ , makes himself get to his feet, forces his knees to hold his weight.

He doesn’t pause to think about it, to make a  _ plan _ , or feed them some bullshit line. He points the grapple and fires without a word, pressing the button to reel it in before it even really sinks home.

The sole of his DC skims over Cythonna’s stone head when he kicks up to try and make it over the side of the Wallstone before N or Hood could reach him. Depending on what was in that dart, his appropriately scheduled GTFO has just shortened considerably.

“Timmy!” N shouts from behind him, but he’s being pulled into gravity, light-headed and heartsick–

( _ Because after all this time, here they are, chasing him down. For all the wrong fucking reasons. _ )

–when the flutter against his soul, the feather-light touch is something so familiar, so  _ jarring _ , that he loses his grip on the grapple and cries out with it, hands going to his covered Mark because it fucking  _ burns _ .

The influx is too much for his drugged mind to grip and grasp, is something he’s got to push the hell  _ away _ so he can try to catch himself before a horrible death on the Gotham street below since, you know, he’s got a  _ thing  _ with falling.

And even with his crazily spinning vision, his body starting to go alarmingly numb, the bile in his stomach churning, he’s still so incredibly shocked when it’s Nightwing, not Batman, this time that catches him around the back and swings them right the hell away from death by pavement.

The only difference from the last bout of  _ I might go out this way _ , is that he fully expects Dick to drop him on the roof and back the hell away because he’s getting snatches of  _ shock _ and  _ anger _ through the drug hitting his system.

( _ And why wouldn’t he expect it? Dick has got to be horrified by this little reveal, right? _ )

His knees give out on him the second they set down, sprawling him across the roof and scraping up his palms while he tries very  _ very _ hard not to throw up the coffee he’d had an hour ago. He gags again, you know, for good measure.

“God _ dammit _ ,” Hood is kneeling by him, a gloved hand on the back of his neck, “musta got the dosage too high.”

His sarcastic,  _ you think? _ is totally lost when he collapses on his side and tries to keep  _ breathing _ .

His world gets tossed around again, colors pinwheeling wildly while his eyelids flutter and the universe turns on its’ axis. He can’t feel his lower body, can’t feel his stomach pressing into Hood’s shoulder when he’s thrown over like a sack of potatoes and only woozily watches the roof moving below in a fast stride.

The words are low, passing over his head, only snatches of conversation:

“Jay… _ Jason _ .”

“I know, Baby Boy. S’ why I didn’t wanna tell ya m’self.”

“How…how could– I don’t understand. Jay,  _ I don’t understand _ .”

“Me neither. S’why I told Timmy we was gonna have a motherfucking talk ‘bout it. If nothing else, we deserve ta hear the truth, you feel me?”

“How long has he known?” And yeah,  _ yeah _ , that sounds more like an angry Nightwing.

“Dunno. Once this lil’ cocktail kicks in, y’ can ask, yeah?”

“Oh, you can bet your  _ ass _ I’m  _ going _ to.”

And it’s not because he’s laying all over Hood and they’re flying over Gotham, it’s not because the drug pumping through his system, or the weightless, sluggish roll of his thoughts. It’s the pulsing beneath his skin, the red, stinging,  _ burning _ that’s not far away, almost in his reach. It’s the Mark on his hip thumping and throbbing in a way he’s never even  _ known  _ could happen.

But it still has the same effect because his eyes are getting heavy and wet, his chest stuttering against Hood’s broad back, his equilibrium shot all to hell when they land it on the fire escape outside N’s apartment window. It’s how he can’t even run or fight or protect himself when they work in tandem to manhandle him inside, how backing away only ends up with him sprawled on the floor, scooting back until he hits a wall and can’t go any  _ further _ .

( _ Trapped _ .)

It’s a stupid thing how the drugs hit him in his weakest points, how it makes him so immediately aware of the pending Bond suddenly so real and  _ in his face _ that he can’t shut it the fuck off, that his Mark is thumping and throbbing in a way that makes his heart beat faster even with the drugs ( _ and it always should have been this way, shouldn’t it? But now that he knows how it feels to be that much closer to connected, now that he knows how  _ they _ feel in the Bond, how he is ever going to move forward? It was better when he only had pieces and part-ways because you can’t miss something you never had in the first place _ ).

Biting down on his lower lip doesn’t give him the pain he needs to stop it, to put Tim Drake back in a box in the corner of his brain and use Red Robin’s deductive reasoning and calm detachment. The drugs are fucking with him too much to just shut it all down, and he pulls his knees up, tucks his hoodie sleeves down over his hands, shoves the hood over his head when his eyes spill the fuck over no matter how much he tries to fight it.

Nightwing and Hood pull the sundries off, keeping an eye on the huddled Tim Drake to make sure he doesn’t take off again. Dominos and helmet, jacket and gauntlets, gloves and holster. They become Dick and Jay in bodysuits, exchanging a worried look while Baby Bird ( _ their soulmate _ ) shakes like a leaf, and gingerly move across the floor in Dick’s living room, crouching down to his level.

“Timmy, how are you doing? Are the drugs still making you sick?” is soft and unsure, wavery, is Dick Grayson trying to be  _ calm _ and  _ in control _ when all he wants to do is start yelling, demanding answers, when he wants to pull Tim in his arms and just  _ hold on _ , but the angry red burning on Tim’s muted connection keeps him just out of arm’s reach. 

And maybe because it’s Dick being so absurdly  _ older brother _ about it, maybe because Jay is crouched right beside him, staring Tim down with a closed expression. Maybe because he isn’t going to get to do this on  _ his _ terms after all.  Maybe it’s the holy-fuck cocktail, but something makes his chest shudder, makes his brain go off  _ logical _ mode, makes him so unbearably  _ tired _ .

“What the fuck does it matter?” The third Robin doesn’t raise his head, isn’t sure he wouldn’t be seeing double, “it’s over anyway. I did the best I fucking  _ could _ with what I had to work with. I did the right thing. I made the best fucking choices, and  _ here we fucking are.” _

Covering his eyes with one hand doesn’t make it all go away, doesn’t make saliva stop pooling in his mouth or the hard clenching of his stomach, doesn’t make any of it, any of  _ this _ , better.

“Even when…even when my own fucking soulmate tried to slit my goddamn throat, and the other took my fucking  _ cape _ , I still made the right call. I still tried to do the  _ right thing _ , and what the  _ hell  _ did it get me?!”

Dick’s breath catches at the implications while Jay’s jaw goes tight, a muscle ticking. And the detectives are putting some of the pieces together, trying to gauge how long Tim could have  _ known _ , how they could have missed the Bond trying to form, waiting for them to reach out and allow the connection, how it could have all gone so  _ wrong _ .

And now his lower lip is trembling against the knee of his worn jeans, chest hitching with it because he can’t  _ lie _ , not with whatever Hood shot him up with pumping through his brain pan. The tentative brush against the Bond, one of them, either of them, fuck maybe  _ both _ of them, trying to get in, to see where he’s at, what he’s thinking, is too much for the moment. At least he’s with it enough to grit his teeth against the temptation, to lock himself down tight and fucking  _ refuse _ .

It’s a crazy thing how he gets to be the one to reject it all this time around.

_ Since it feels really shitty, doesn’t it?  _

He doesn’t hear the strangled noise out of Jason Todd or see Dick Grayson  _ flinch _ .

“It doesn’t even fucking mean anything. Not to either of you.” He doesn’t look up at them,  _ can’t _ , not when he’s babbling on like this, not when he’s derailing from the damn plan, not when it’s all going so  _ wrong _ and he’s pretty much helpless to stop it. And maybe he’s a little  _ bitter _ about it all, never being enough, never being able to have what the universe marked as  _ his _ . Maybe there’s too many things buried deep welling up closer and closer to the surface, things he won’t be able to ever take  _ back _ . 

“The truth?” He spits out from under the hood, “You want the  _ truth _ Jay? You want me to tell you  _ a story? _ ” He doesn’t see the broken expression on Dick’s face, hands already extended in an aborted movement, or Jay’s eyes suspiciously bright in the dim lamp light.

“It wasn’t…it isn’t just  _ you _ . No one….no one’s ever  _ wanted _ me. Not my parents, not Bruce, not even my team at first. Not Dami, not Steph, and sure as  _ fuck _ not my own soulmates.” He chokes it out, painful and harsh. “So I wasn’t…I  _ wouldn’t _ have ever said anything. I wouldn’t have come between what you have.  _ I wouldn’t have done that to you _ . You’ve made it this far without me and I sure as  _ fuck _ don’t need to be where I’m not wanted, where I was  _ never fucking wanted _ .”

And he has to breathe, has to make himself calm the hell down and try to think around the drug sliding through his system, “that’s why I didn’t want to come back to Gotham in the first fucking place. I was  _ fine _ staying with the Titans since I’m not Robin anymore. Everyone was  _ happy _ when I just minded my own business until the Bats needed  _ tech support _ or some shit, but no one could leave it well enough alone. You all wanted to play some fucking  _ kumbaya _ shit and decided I was too far out to be useful or whatever, and  _ here we are _ .”

He fists his hands inside the sleeves, tries to just  _ Stop. Talking _ . Because they didn’t need to know all this. They didn’t  _ need _ to see anything other than what Red Robin’s got to show them, but try as he might, his jaw is still moving, and the drug pulses low in his bloodstream.

“It doesn’t even fucking matter anymore. We…we’ve moved on, and it’s-it’s  _ fine _ now. I’ve moved on, and this–” he waves a vague hand around the room while wiping at his eyes with the hoodie sleeve, “this doesn’t have to change anything. I’m still going to come when the Bats put out the call and fight the good fight. I’m still going to fix the fucking Batcomputer and patrol Gotham when I’m in town and take care of WE, just like I always have. I said that months ago, and I still mean it.”

And he’s pretty sure his eyes are red and puffy, but can still chance a glance up with his jaw tense, “I don’t need your fucking  _ pity _ just because we have the same damn Mark. It’s not going to change anything anyway.”

Standing rooted to the spot, listening to alla the shit Timmy is spewing out, Jason Todd is finally able to take a  _ breath _ . The shock is quickly wearing off when he realizes how  _ long _ Baby Bird musta known, how fucking  _ long _ he’s had to  _ hide _ , to walk alone in the world without them by his fucking side where they shoulda oughta always been. It’s like he’s being beaten by that sadistic fuck all over again, each word outta Timmy’s mouth a blow to his back, his ribs, his legs, taking all the air out of his lungs, making him feel  _ pain _ like he hasn’t felt in a fucking long ass time.

“It ain’t…” and because he chokes on it, Jason forces himself to suck in another lungful so he’s got some  _ noise _ fer how this is gonna go. “It’s ain’t gotta  _ change _ , Timmy? S’at what yer trying ta say?”

Bracing his hands on the wall behind him, Tim forces his weak knees to get solid enough to hold his weight, so he can at least stand the hell up and take the rejection on his damn feet (not like they  _ need _ to do this. He’s already well  _ aware _ they don’t want him, didn’t he mention that?). “Yeah…That’s–” and he has to try swallowing, the bob of his throat noticeable when he’s trying  _ not _ to be  _ that  _ obvious about it (because  _ fuck _ he’s already come to the deduction he’d never get to have them, he’d never get to be held and needed, he’d never get to touch their Marks, have them touch his...it’s not in the cards for him, is it? It never  _ was _ ) “that’s what I’m trying to say. I mean, who needs a fucking replacement soulmate, right?”

When Jay’s shoulders get  _ tight _ at that little dig, when he straightens in a stiff, dangerous way that is very  _ Red Hood _ , Tim just steels himself to take a blow. Maybe a good one to his face or right under his diaphragm where it would really  _ hurt _ .

(He could use the pain right about now because the world is tilting sideways and it’s too much for him to get to the window.)

What he doesn’t expect is to see Jason narrow watery eyes at him. “Ya really think…fer one fucking  _ second _ I’ma be able ta live in this world without ya now that I  _ know _ ?”

Dick bites down on his lower lip, breathless with the radiating pain coming through their Bond, of the obvious agony still somewhat muted from Tim’s end, just to reinforce how he hasn’t accepted it, accepted  _ them _ , how he could probably feel them, had felt them through a not even half-formed Bond, that living with it that way for  _ however long _ has probably been tantamount to torture.

“Do ya…do ya think I could just letcha walk the fuck away, Timmy? Like I dunno where ya been all this time?” Like he can’t help being pulled forward, Jay takes necessary steps, bracketing Tim in with both arms before he can make good on any kind of escape. “Don’tcha know what it fucking  _ does _ ta me? How it tears me up inside when I think about ‘cha being alone in the fucking desert, and I wasn’t there when ya needed me? That I letcha keep running and fighting and bleedin’ out, an’ getting the  _ shit _ kicked outta ya without me, without  _ him _ ?”

And Jay’s eyes are so very  _ blue _ , spilling over when he blinks, when his voice cracks, when he breaks the fuck  _ down _ .

“Ya think it don’t _kill me_. Like it didn’t ‘fore this, but knowin’ _now_? Knowing it was my hands what bled ya? _My. Fucking. Hands_ what did it all. Lookit what I did, lookit how far I drove ya away that cha couldn’t even _tell me_. For Chrissakes, yer a piece of my _soul_ , and lookit what I did ta the best part a’ me... the last light in me. Only good thing ‘bout my soul is Dickie an’ _you_ , Timmy.”

Tim’s mouth drops open at the same time as Dick’s, both of them automatically coming to his defense, but Jason Todd is a man what  _ knows _ death. Knows there is no  _ gray _ , as sure as there ain’t nothing good waiting on him the next time around. So he cuts off whatever bullshit they might spew out to fight him because all this isn’t really about that. It’s about making Tim  _ see _ where his place is, where he should have been all this time.

“I’m a fucking  _ murderer _ , baby. Did alla the bad when I came back ‘cause I fucking blamed B n’ Dick, n’  _ you _ when it wasn’t nobody’s fault but my  _ own _ . All happened ‘cause’a choices I made, ‘n just fucked my second chance but good. An’ after all that, there ain’t gonna be another salvation after this, do you  _ feel me _ ? The only savin’ grace I got in this world is Dick…an’ now  _ you _ .”

Moving up behind him, reeling from it all still, from the Bond he just wants to shove his hands into and  _ take _ , Dick’s hand slides around Jay’s hip, firm and grounding.  He tries to ease the horribly bitter taint to their path, still wondering if he’d ever be able to convince Jay he’s wrong about all of it, that maybe,  _ maybe _ , if Tim could forgive them, could be what they were always meant to  _ be _ , if the two of them could finally put Jay’s deepest fears to rest.

( _ And it would be the thing of legends and star-stuff, the three of them could be so much  _ **_more_ ** _ , could be so perfect together, fighting and supporting and loving like they always should have been. Like the universe always meant them to be….) _

It’s an easy thing to look at Tim over Jay’s shoulder, to let his other hand latch on to one of the sleeves over Tim’s hand, to try and connect them.

But Tim is utterly speechless, doesn’t realize, just trying to blink rapidly to keep his eyes from spilling over, grinding his teeth because this is absolutely  _ not _ what he expected to hear.

“I can’t believe that… Jay,  _ fuck _ , Jason, that’s not–”

“He’s right, sweetheart, you know it’s not–”

“It  _ is _ .” A hard sigh leaves the Red Hood’s chest, makes it all  _ kinds _ of easy to drop his head down on Timmy’s shoulder, lets him get a hand free to grip at Dickie’s on his hip, too damn sorry about how it’ll end up for them in the hereafter since he knows how that’s gonna go down. “Too many stains on my soul ta walk through the gates this time. Mighta been ‘cause I died as Robin the first time, but there ain’t gonna be none’a that shit second time ‘round. An’ I’ma haveta answer fer it when the time comes. I’ma haveta deal with it, what I did ta ya,  _ both _ ya. Too many close calls, Dick. I put m’ sins on yer fucking  _ back _ ta carry. Made ya the one what broke Robin when it was me all along. An’ I tookit right ta ya, Timmy, yeah? Almost slit ya from ear ta ear, n’ shoved that bat-a-rang in yer chest tryin’ ta take ya out fer that fucking cowl. But the worst izzat I kept ya from yer third alla this time ‘cause I thought it was just the two a’ us with the Mark when I shoulda  _ known _ …” And Jay bites down hard, jaw clenching, voice find rough, “Fuck, ain’t none’a that I can come back from.”

“What. The.  _ Fuck _ ?!” And well, things like  _ tranq darts _ will do terrible things to your filter. “That’s not true, okay? Jay, that’s bullshit because no one would have resisted death and goddamn  _ brainwashing.  _ You’re forgiven so just be like Elsa and let it the fuck go. I mean I always  _ knew _ about Dick’s Mark anyway so that–”

The mental  _ whoa there _ hits Dick Grayson right in the spine, snapping his head over to look Tim right in the eye. “ _ What did you say? _ ”

_ Fuck _ . Nice going, Detective.

Now he’s bracket in by not one vigilante, but  _ two _ as Dick comes from behind Jay to stare Tim down with hard blue eyes.

“What do you  _ mean _ you’ve always known, Tim?  _ How long have you known we’re soulmates?” _

Blinking rapidly, sluggish brain trying to work out an excuse, to give himself a little bit of plausible deniability–

And he  _ fails _ . Because Hood didn’t bother taking the long route with criminals anymore, had less reason to be  _ angry _ enough to beat the truth out of them, he’s contending with the part-truth serum made with his own  _ hands _ just for Jay.

So, it’s absolutely no question that he has to tell it how it all really went down, uselessly gritting his teeth against it. “You’d just lost your parents. How...how could I put that on you?”

Dick blinks, jerks back a little looking positively  _ stunned _ .

“I…I didn’t even understand it until later. I had no idea what happened,” he rushes out, pushing further back into the wall, trying to make himself look smaller. “I swear I didn’t know until later.”

His heart starts to pick up, thumps hard in his chest when Dick’s expression turns carefully blank, utterly neutral.

“How much later, Tim?”

“I…Dick, I–” but really, he’s dug his own grave now.

“Did you know while you were Robin?” And it’s too quiet for Dick, too  _ calm _ . “Did you know while we were training together and hanging out in the ‘Haven? Did you know while I was wearing the cape when Bruce broke his back?” Dick’s eyes narrow down at him, hammering the last nail in the proverbial coffin, “ _ did you know while you were  _ **_my_ ** _ Robin, Tim?” _

Clenching his teeth, hands fisting by his sides, he feels the pulsing anger across the Bond, powerful enough to be just another blow to the spleen, just another reason to bleed the fuck  _ out _ .

“ _ How long have you known, Tim?!” _ Dick shouts at him, completely ignoring Jay’s restraining hand on his shoulder, so  _ angry _ he can hardly see through it.

( _ How could you do that to me, to  _ **_us_ ** _ , Tim? How could you deny us both when I needed you, always needed you, when you needed me? Why would you–? _ )

“You wouldn’t have taken me seriously! I was your little brother, the fucking Robin you didn’t want to--” and as hard as he bites down against it because  _ hello, the guy is standing right here _ , it still comes out with a harsh, “die. That’s it, and I  _ knew it _ . I knew you would never open to Bond with a fucking  _ kid _ . So, I was waiting until I turned eighteen and maybe...maybe you’d-- but…”  

“But  _ what _ , Tim _? _ ”

And there it is. The thing he doesn’t want to say, his eyes getting automatically hot and  _ full _ , the ache that never really went away, only came back when the crime fighting eased down and sleep dep was more than just his usual state of being.

How fucking  _ easy _ it had been for Dick to fire him.

“But  _ what? _ You took my fucking  _ cape _ , you asshole _.  _ You threw me the  _ fuck  _ away. You thought I was crazy, even after everything we’d been through together. The most important time I needed you to believe in me and you didn’t. So, it was easy to figure out. You didn’t want me, so I didn’t push it.”

Dick chokes, straightening up, every muscle drawn  _ tight _ in shock and bitter anger. He doesn’t feel Jay’s arm sliding around his chest, making him realize he was unconsciously leaning forward while a low noise comes out of him, something wounded and small.

“I understood why Jay wanted me  _ dead _ . I took his place! But you…You…I-I thought we were  _ partners _ . I thought we were friends, and I… you-you couldn’t even look me  _ in the face _ when you gave my cape to Dami without even  _ asking _ . So  _ no, Dick _ , I figured that pretty much answered the whole  _ does my soulmate want me _ question. You didn’t even want me as a partner the second you thought Bruce was dead!”

“Jesus  _ Christ _ , Timmy,” is from Jay, his chest shuddering, while he’s got one hand over his mouth and the other tightening, but he can feel the stutter of Dick’s chest under his forearm, feels the fine tremble in him all over.

“Jay didn’t want me…so why the hell would  _ you? _ ” And even though his muscles are tight with it, his vision blurry and his face wet, the truth of it comes out like bile, rancid and acidic, burning its’ way out of his brain pan.

It’s uncoordinated and sloppy when he ducks to the side after all those things come spilling out. He takes a few needed steps away from them so he can turn his back, so he can just  _ breathe _ . He ends up bracing himself standing on the doorway to the kitchen, already aware there’s a nice big window over the sink with his name on it.

“So why…Why didn’t I ever  _ say _ anything?” He scrubs angrily at his face, pissed off at himself. He should have moved past all this, should have tried to run harder, run  _ faster _ since he’d really meant to save all of them from  _ this _ . “Because I never really needed to. I always knew what the answer would be.”

And the heart goes out of them, listening to it all, knowing Tim’s riding a high because of drugs mixed with sodium-pentothal ( _ not the one that lies to Batman tonight _ ), that he’s backing away with his teeth bared in a snarl like a wounded animal, but his face is wet and eyes still watery with all the things still in him that he hasn’t poured out.

It’s a side of him they haven’t seen yet on the road to getting him further back into the family, a side they didn’t know existed, and the hard realization combined with the muted pulse of the Bond is enough to make them  _ ache _ to hold him between them ( _ where he belongs _ ). To keep him warm and safe, to shield him from any more terrible things the world would throw at him. To  _ show _ this little  _ asshole _ how much it all  _ means _ .

When it would usually be  _ Dick Grayson _ ,  _ Hug Monster _ , this time Jay has Tim pressed up against the door frame with his body, forcing the younger vigilante to straighten up, giving Jason Todd every opportunity to wrap both arms around him, bury him right against the red symbol still on his chest. He gets his soulmate’s head tucked under his chin, huddled against the front of him, and shudders just a little when the Bond under his skin gets just a little more  _ solid _ .

“ _ Baby _ ,” is a huff against the top of his head, something watery and sad, a way he’s never heard Jay sound before. “Fer such a smart lil’ sum’bitch, ya don’t pay any kinda attention when it  _ counts _ .”

“Don’t…don’t fucking  _ placate me _ , Jay. Not all soulmates have to connect, right? Sometimes the universe is just  _ wrong _ and it happens–”

“Shaddup. S’our turn ‘cause we gedda have our say too, don’t we?”

“I think that’s pretty fair,” Dick, shaken up with the hard truths and painful realization, with the fledgling Bond muted under his skin, the path intermingling with Jay’s, so close to be  _ real _ , tries to keep it the  _ hell _ together because out of the three of them,  _ someone _ had to keep a level head. (And the possibilities, the  _ awareness _ of how they could all finally be  _ complete _ , makes the Mark on his leg burn in  _ want _ of it.)

He takes shaky steps on trembling knees, puts himself right against them again, reaching and pulling until they’re both against his chest while the facts are finally laid right out in front of him, and their past takes on a completely different connotation now that he  _ knows _ . All the quirks he’s always found endearing, all the things that are simply just  _ Tim _ .

( _ With so much trauma, with so much bad blood still painting their past, they’ve got work to do, so much work to do… _ )

Threading his bare fingers through that too-long hair while the other plays with the soft buzz cut on the back of Jay’s neck, between them, Dick and Jay’s own forged Bond pulses with shock and guilt, hurt and self-recriminations. All the things they can’t  _ say _ in front of Tim yet, the things they still need time to process.

But if there’s one thing Dick  _ knows _ at this point is that his soulmates have the same tendency to run like hell when the emotions becomes too much to handle. Sure, he’s come a  _ long way _ with Jaybird, and has been working to get Tim out of the habit, make him understand it’s not  _ okay _ .

Not anymore.

Determination pulses through the regrets and enlightenments, makes Jason Todd raise his face, look over just enough for their eyes to meet. The shared understanding is reflected in two sets of blue eyes before they turn down to their missing third, the final piece they’ve always been missing. Their arms unconsciously tighten down just a bit more, plans settling into place.

“You don’t… I mean all of that is in the past, right? We’re – we’re good now. We’ve  _ been  _ good, kicking ass and taking names whenever I’m in town, and–”

“It don’t change what I done ta ya,” Jay grinds out, moving to press his cheek into Tim’s, “don’t change what we always shoulda  _ had _ . Y’ think we been huntin’ ya down ‘cause we needed a fucking  _ Nerd Squad _ or some shit? Like any a’ us give two fucks about yer tech? Seriously, Timmy? Like it was ever about that _? _ ”

“The truth, Timmy? We never really let you go,” Dick has no qualms gently rocking them both of them, wrapping them up in his arms because if anything, he’s not sure he’s going to let either of them out of his sight for a while.  “And what we’ve been doing? Showing up? Making you come  _ home _ occasionally? It’s not because of Robin or Red Robin and what they can deliver when we’re up against the worst odds. What you don’t understand is that being Robin was never the defining factor in your  _ place _ . Even when you had to give it up because of your dad, you were still  _ family _ , Tim. Robin or not, domino or cowl, you’re still one of us. God, how could you even think that it was all for any other reason than it’s  _ you _ .”

“I…” But his throat is fucking  _ tight _ and suddenly there’s too much oxygen in the room but not enough between the three of them.

“Had a meetin’ months ago, ‘bout how ya was worrying everyone. Never checkin’ in, got too far outta the family. S’ why us n’ B and that little shit Demon decided it was time ta reel ya back in.”

 

_ Tim.exe has stopped working. _

 

“Babs made sure to keep annoying you until you started answering comms again.”

“B had Vic rig up the Tower cams.”

“And Clark snuck in a few more that time you guys were hot on the Church’s heels.”

“Demon gotcha office at WE. Gotta admit that little shit is a stealthy fuck.”

“He takes pride in his work, Jay.”

But Tim shakes his head a little, trying to mentally recalibrate, looking between the two of them, eyes dazed with the drug and  _ this _ little realization.

“You…you’ve been  _ tracking _ me? Since when!?” He gets a half inch of space when the combination of limbs around him stop that little escape plan.

“When have we  _ not _ been? Are you kidding me? Like I didn’t know you were in Ra’s Cradle hacking his systems like only you can do?” Dick shakes his head in admonishment.

“Oh…”  _ Oh fuck _ . The old holdovers, the possibility that he was just  _ that _ , another soldier, another resource, another detective to fight the good fight, ease up in his chest a little more, just like it has been the past few months they’ve been on this road to being good again. Fuck if they aren’t all  _ sincere _ and shit while giving him evidence he needs to  _ believe _ again.

“And  _ oh Timmy _ . Timmy, Timmy, Timmy. That conversation is coming. Just, it is going to happen, so don’t bother trying to run. But what’s really important  _ right now _ ,” Dick shamelessly uses his hold in Tim’s hair, tightens his grip just a  _ little _ , “is  _ us _ , and how you want us.  _ If _ you want us. When you want us, but, well, if you don’t know that one, I can tell you that  _ yes _ and  _ immediately _ are very good answers.” 

And a hard breath shudders out, Tim’s chest hitching with it. And the reality that this is something he could  _ have _ , something they both  _ wanted _ , makes his mouth dry and he’s blinking rapidly to clear out his watery vision again.

“Don’t get me wrong, we’re not going to do anything yet,” and the pulse under his skin is so much  _ more _ when Dick pushes against him, when Dick offers himself  _ up _ . “You’re drugged and we want you to be completely on board if… if you want to keep us. Because it’s not a question of if we want you. The  _ answer  _ to that,” and Dick tugs a little for emphasis, staring down into his second soulmate’s wide blue-violet eyes, getting lost in something so precious he  _ aches _ for it.

But still, Tim’s been waiting on them for so long, he the right to make the final call and accept their Bond, to open himself up and  _ take it _ .

Jay finally raises up, turns just enough. “Answer’s always gonna be yes, ya fucking  _ pain _ in my left nut. Never not gonna be nothing but hellmother _ fucking _ yes.”

“Absolutely,” Dick sighs a little, eyes soft and fond, “ _ yes _ . If you can even, for just a  _ second _ , believe in us, if you give us the chance, Tim, I promise, I. Promise. you will  _ never _ regret it.”

Jay hums softly and leans down to run his nose over Tim’s jugular, says soft and gentle right against his pulse, “gonna be s’ good ta ya. Like ya don’t even  _ know _ , baby.”

Dick smiles just a little, even with the realizations pressing down on him, the possibilities are still so much  _ brighter _ . So it’s not beneath him to cheat slightly, send a nice feeling to Jay over their Bond, just some motivation in their attempt to  _ persuade _ Tim they’re going to be worth keeping _. _

When Dick leans down and touches his mouth to the other side of Tim’s throat, the two older vigilantes give a sigh against skin and prod his muted side of the Bond, give a harder  _ push _ .

And the  _ feeling _ clicks into place with Tim’s broken gasp.

Where it was muted and cold and  _ wrong _ before, the Bond pulses closer and clearer and so, so  _ warm. _ There’s easy affection and concern and need and  _ want _ and everything it should have always  _ been _ . It’s so close,  _ so close _ , that Tim’s eyes flutter closed with it and he’s gasping for air, the shudder running up his spine lethargic. All he can do is arch, press further into them, marvel at the  _ rightness _ of it. After denying himself for so  _ long _ , believing this is something he could never  _ have _ , to feel it right there at his fingertips is more tempting than that time he almost,  _ almost _ , gave in and joined Ra’s.

When his knees give a twitch, they don’t move away, just keep him on his feet because the most treasured thing in the world is hanging right in his  _ face _ . It’s all calm and reassuring, all kinds of  _ put yourself in their hands _ , and hold on for the ride. It would mean more time in Gotham, sure, but the benefits are going to outweigh all of that. 

His face gets red for a whole different reason than things like disgusting emotional word vomit, with soft breath against his throat and the two most amazing men he’s ever  _ known _ right here, pressed up against him in bodysuits without masks (hitting  _ every kink he’s ever  _ **_had_ ** ), his brain sputters helplessly with what the hell he’s going to  _ do _ .

But if he wakes up thirteen hours after an  _ intense _ cuddling session on Dick’s couch, wearing borrowed t-shirt and sleep pants, and finally riding the end of a hard stint of the shit Jay pumped into him (a later analysis will make him utterly  _ mortified  _ because the formula wasn’t meant to be powerful or long-lasting, he was just  _ that sleep deprived, fuck _ ).

If his spectacular sneaking skills are thoroughly  _ thwarted _ by octopus holds and a meaty thigh over his hip, if he isn’t given coffee and moved idly around the kitchen to weave around Jay cooking and Dick cleaning, holding his mug in a death grip because no one shall take his  _ precious _ .

If they wrangle him into a seat and feed him perfect pancakes and lay out the plan for the next few days.

If Jay doesn’t look him dead in the face and say, “gonna tell the Brat Squad ya got some  _ business _ t’ take care a in Gotham, right Timmy? ‘Cause I don’t think yer going far fer a while.”

If Dick doesn’t wrestle him down to the couch while Jay makes a run for bread and smokes, makes him talk about it all, grips and pulls and holds  _ just like Dick _ until he’s a wrung out mess and the fingers running through his hair is  _ so much _ , he just  _ can’t _ .

If they don’t suit up together, and he really  _ does _ call the Titans before they take off into Gotham, tell them he’s take some much needed vacay to handle the usual array of  _ crazy _ and  _ nefarious plots _ .

If he doesn’t give it a few days before he puts all of them out of their misery–

( _ The second it clicks, the second it’s open and full and  _ perfect _ , is the second his clothes are being torn off and he’s eating at Dick’s mouth like a madman, pulling off to shove his tongue down Jay’s throat. They don’t make it farther than the hallway, moving and shifting, taking and giving, clawing at skin, sucking at the spot, vulnerable spots. They peel the cover-up off and he comes so hard he almost blacks out when they kiss it, touch it, trace it. It’s the most intense sex he’s ever had, certainly the hottest, and  _ God _ , it’s always going to be  _ **_his_ ** .)

If he doesn’t need them to say it again (even though they  _ do _ . Now they always  _ do _ )–

Then he knows the answer really is  _ yes. _


End file.
